Read Online The Shattered Raven by Edward D. Hoch - Free Book Online
Authors: Edward D. Hoch
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press, letters to members, an article to be written for next month’s Third Degree , the MWA house organ.
“All right,” Barney said. “So we’ve got ourselves a murder. A front-page murder at that. You people have seen the Times and the News. The Post this afternoon plays it up big too. We’re on the spot. A famous person has been killed at our awards dinner and you know where that leaves us? Right behind the eight-ball! The whole thing makes us look foolish. It wasn’t as if he had just been shot or stabbed. He had to be killed with some crazy device that looks like it was dreamed up by a mystery writer.” He looked down the table to where Betty Rafferty sat making quick shorthand notes. “Betty, you were as close to him as I was. Did you see anything?”
“Not a thing, Barney … except how he took that Raven out of your hand and smashed it. We’ll have to get you a new one.”
“I’m not worried about that right now. I’m mainly worried about why he did it.”
“A dying message …” Max Winters said, giving words to the obvious.
“Sure. A dying message.” Barney sighed and looked down, scratching his head. “Don’t think I haven’t given it a lot of concentration. I even called Fred Dannay up in Larchmont this morning.” (Dannay was one half of the Ellery Queen writing combination, and a number of his plots, especially in the short-short length, had concerned dying messages.) “I called Fred and talked to him for half an hour. We discussed the thing up and down. He agrees it was a dying message of some sort, but he’s as puzzled by it as the rest of us. Raven—bird—maybe some other bird. Maybe the killer’s name has a bird in it. There was no other bird around except for the Raven’s statue, so he grabbed for the closest thing handy. There are a dozen explanations and we’ve got nothing to go on.”
Betty Rafferty spoke up from the end of the table. “I’ve gone through the entire guest list. There’s not a bird among them.”
Harry Fox was not formally part of the board of directors, but he often dropped in on meetings, and he sat near the makeshift bar now, voicing occasional comments. “I’m a Fox. That’s an animal. Does that help any?”
“Afraid not,” Barney said.
“What do we do?” Someone else asked. “Let’s cut the chatter and get down to business.”
What they did for the next half hour was listen to opinions—from Jim Reach and Chris Steinbrunner, Gloria Amoury and Aaron Marc Stein. The sum of it was that nobody knew exactly what to do. They all agreed that MWA had to come out of it looking good. There was too much at stake in the organisation’s prestige.
“The thing to do is check all the names on that seating list,” Harry Fox said. “Every one of them. Find out how much they knew about Craigthorn. Maybe we’ll turn up a bitter enemy first time out.”
Barney nodded in agreement. “I’m going to ask you all to work on this with me. I’m going to give you a few names each and start you digging.”
“One thing,” Max said. “Barney, you’re a detective. You were a licensed private eye for a good many years, and you’re known as such. I think MWA should hire you formally, or informally, to investigate Craigthorn’s murder.”
“I haven’t been a detective for years, Max. You know that.”
“But you can get back into the swing of things. Look, Barney, you’re the logical one. A lot of mystery writers running off half-cocked aren’t going to get anywhere. You know the sort of things that we need to find. If you don’t find them, okay, but nobody can criticise us if we have you looking for them.”
“What about that girl?” Betty Rafferty asked. “Is she going to make trouble? The writer from Manhattan magazine?”
Barney had forgotten Susan Veldt for the moment. “I don’t know. What do you want me to do with her? Take her to bed with me?”
Max Winters chuckled. “It wouldn’t be a bad idea. For the good of the
“All right,” Barney said. “So we’ve got ourselves a murder. A front-page murder at that. You people have seen the Times and the News. The Post this afternoon plays it up big too. We’re on the spot. A famous person has been killed at our awards dinner and you know where that leaves us? Right behind the eight-ball! The whole thing makes us look foolish. It wasn’t as if he had just been shot or stabbed. He had to be killed with some crazy device that looks like it was dreamed up by a mystery writer.” He looked down the table to where Betty Rafferty sat making quick shorthand notes. “Betty, you were as close to him as I was. Did you see anything?”
“Not a thing, Barney … except how he took that Raven out of your hand and smashed it. We’ll have to get you a new one.”
“I’m not worried about that right now. I’m mainly worried about why he did it.”
“A dying message …” Max Winters said, giving words to the obvious.
“Sure. A dying message.” Barney sighed and looked down, scratching his head. “Don’t think I haven’t given it a lot of concentration. I even called Fred Dannay up in Larchmont this morning.” (Dannay was one half of the Ellery Queen writing combination, and a number of his plots, especially in the short-short length, had concerned dying messages.) “I called Fred and talked to him for half an hour. We discussed the thing up and down. He agrees it was a dying message of some sort, but he’s as puzzled by it as the rest of us. Raven—bird—maybe some other bird. Maybe the killer’s name has a bird in it. There was no other bird around except for the Raven’s statue, so he grabbed for the closest thing handy. There are a dozen explanations and we’ve got nothing to go on.”
Betty Rafferty spoke up from the end of the table. “I’ve gone through the entire guest list. There’s not a bird among them.”
Harry Fox was not formally part of the board of directors, but he often dropped in on meetings, and he sat near the makeshift bar now, voicing occasional comments. “I’m a Fox. That’s an animal. Does that help any?”
“Afraid not,” Barney said.
“What do we do?” Someone else asked. “Let’s cut the chatter and get down to business.”
What they did for the next half hour was listen to opinions—from Jim Reach and Chris Steinbrunner, Gloria Amoury and Aaron Marc Stein. The sum of it was that nobody knew exactly what to do. They all agreed that MWA had to come out of it looking good. There was too much at stake in the organisation’s prestige.
“The thing to do is check all the names on that seating list,” Harry Fox said. “Every one of them. Find out how much they knew about Craigthorn. Maybe we’ll turn up a bitter enemy first time out.”
Barney nodded in agreement. “I’m going to ask you all to work on this with me. I’m going to give you a few names each and start you digging.”
“One thing,” Max said. “Barney, you’re a detective. You were a licensed private eye for a good many years, and you’re known as such. I think MWA should hire you formally, or informally, to investigate Craigthorn’s murder.”
“I haven’t been a detective for years, Max. You know that.”
“But you can get back into the swing of things. Look, Barney, you’re the logical one. A lot of mystery writers running off half-cocked aren’t going to get anywhere. You know the sort of things that we need to find. If you don’t find them, okay, but nobody can criticise us if we have you looking for them.”
“What about that girl?” Betty Rafferty asked. “Is she going to make trouble? The writer from Manhattan magazine?”
Barney had forgotten Susan Veldt for the moment. “I don’t know. What do you want me to do with her? Take her to bed with me?”
Max Winters chuckled. “It wouldn’t be a bad idea. For the good of the
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