Black Cat Weekly #143

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

NEW SHERIFF IN TOWN, by Hal Charles

EL CAZADOR (The Hunter), by Tom Larsen

SUNRISE AT THE MOONSHINE PALACE, by Joseph S. Walker

FLIPPIN’ FLAPJACKS, by K M Rockwood

THE PUNISHMENT OF THE JEWEL FORGER

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

THE PASSIONATE PITCHMAN, by Stephen Marlowe

MY ROBOT by Henry Slesar

THE LIFE-MASTERS by Edmond Hamilton

THE RED FETISH by Frank Belknap Long

METEOR STRIKE!, by Donald E. Westlake

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2024 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Black Cat Weekly

blackcatweekly.com

*

El Cazador is copyright © 2024 by Tom Larsen and appears here for the first time.

New Sheriff in Town is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

Sunrise at the Moonshine Palace is copyright © 2024 by Joseph S. Walker and appears here for the first time.

Flippin’ Flapjacks is copyright © 2024 by K M Rockwood and appears here for the first time.

The Punishment of the Jewel Forger, by Kurt Matull and Theo Blakensee was originally published in Dutch as De Straf van den Juweelenvervalscher in 1910. Translation and expansion copyright © 2024 by John Betancourt.

The Passionate Pitchman, by Stephen Marlow, was originally published in Fantastic, October 1956.

My Robot, by Henry Slesar, was originally published in Fantastic, February 1957, under the pseudonym O.H. Leslie.

The Life-Masters, by Edmond Hamilton, was originally published in Weird Tales, January 1930.

The Red Fetish, by Frank Belknap Long, was originally published in Weird Tales, January 1930.

Meteor Strike! by Donald E. Westlake, originally published in Amazing Stories, November 1961.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

This issue, we have the second of the long-running Dutch series featuring the adventures of Lord Lister (Alias Raffles), as the Robin Hood of England tangles with a jeweler who likes to cheat his customers with fake diamonds and pearls. (This is a new translation and its first appearance in English. We have more coming up.) Plus we have original mysteries by Tom Larsen (thanks to Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken), Joseph S. Walker (thanks to Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman), and K M Rockwood. Plus, of course, a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.

On the science fiction side of things, we have another great lineup, with tales by Stephen Marlow, Henry Slesar, Edmond Hamilton, Frank Belknap Long, and a writer best known for his mysteries, Donald E. Westlake. Enjoy!

Here’s the complete lineup—

Cover art: Tom Miller.

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

El Cazador (The Hunter), by Tom Larsen [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

New Sheriff in Town, Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

Sunrise at the Moonshine Palace, by Joseph S. Walker [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

Flippin’ Flapjacks, by K M Rockwood [short story]

The Punishment of the Jewel Forger, by Kurt Matull and Theo Blakensee [novelet, Lord Lister (Alias Raffles) #2]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

The Passionate Pitchman, by Stephen Marlow [short story]

My Robot, by Henry Slesar [short story]

The Life-Masters, by Edmond Hamilton [short story]

The Red Fetish, by Frank Belknap Long [short story]

Meteor Strike! by Donald E. Westlake [short story]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ART DIRECTOR

Ron Miller

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Enid North

Karl Wurf

NEW SHERIFF IN TOWN,

by Hal Charles

State Police Detective Kelly Stone glanced at herself in the mirror. A Stetson, gold vest, two six-guns belted around her waist, and boots a size too small. I look ridiculous, she pronounced.

The entire city council thanks you for stepping in at the last minute to play our chief law enforcement officer in Shadow Valley’s Old West Days Festival, said her sister and councilwoman. Pinning a star on her vest, Krissy added, I think you deserve a new name. How about Sheriff Wyette Earp?

Very funny, sis. Let’s just get this afternoon over.

Just as Kelly was ready to step outside the tent headquarters, a breathless Mayor Dan Burnside burst in. Sheriff…detective…Kelly, there’s been a robbery at the bank. Two cowboys in blue polka-dot masks grabbed all the morning’s receipts. The thieves were spotted running into this park, so I had Deputys Rick Peters and June Manymoons cordon it off.

So, reasoned Krissy, the thieves now walk among us.

You sure it was two males? Kelly pressed.

Absolutely positive.

Opening the tent flap, Kelly started counting. Roughly fifty people inside the yellow tape. Have Rick ask all the women and children to head for that chuckwagon across the street. Offer them a free drink or something.

When Mayor Burnside returned, he said simply, Done.

Kelly held up an evidence bag with two food-covered, blue polka-dot bandanas. I found these in a trashcan beneath some tacos. Eventually we can get DNA off them, but the perps might not be in the DNA database.

What now, then? said Krissy.

We do what Wyatt would have done.

You going to shoot somebody like at the OK Corral? asked Krissy incredulously.

Interviews. But first, Mayor, you can dismiss old Charlie in his wheelchair, Fred Firth in a walking boot, and Jimmy on crutches. That leaves only twelve men.

Just like the number of bullets in your Colt .45s, said Krissy with a smile.

Kelly first interviewed four men in their sixties or above. Since one used a walker, another a cane, and one obviously limped, she dismissed all four. Mayor Burnside had said the two thieves were running, and it had been a while since any of the senior quartet had moved that quickly.

Removing a bushy white mustache from one of the eight left, the detective recognized Ollie Bradley, the local paper’s editor.

That gent beside me’s Barry Barnett, my ace reporter, said Ollie. He’s been with me all day pestering me to try some kettle corn.

Barry was actually The Gazette’s only reporter, Kelly thought as she dismissed them. That left six suspects. How many of you are from Shadow Valley?

Four hands shot up.

You guys go stand over there with my super-curious and super-sarcastic sister.

Ten feet away Krissy raised her hand. That would be me.

Where are you two from? Kelly said to the remaining men.

Porter Falls, right down the road, said the taller.

Me, too, said the other.

You two happen to know each other? posed the detective.

The two men remained silent.

In case you didn’t realize, said Kelly, I’m not really a sheriff. I’m State Police. Porter Falls is in my jurisdiction, and I know it’s a really small town.

I might have seen him around town, admitted the smaller.

Kelly looked them both over. You guys notice how you’re different from every other male here today?

Cause we’re outta-towners? said the taller.

Nope, said Kelly. You are the only two men in the park without bandanas.

We gave them to some kids, said the smaller.

I still think she’s lying, said the taller, ’cause she’s looking for a pair of thieves, and there are two of us.

Kelly pulled out her cuffs and snapped one ring over each man’s wrist. Gentleman, follow me. We’re headed for the jail or as they used to call it, the hoosegow.

SOLUTION

The taller man noted the detective was looking for a pair of thieves. Since Mayor Burnside had told that information to just Kelly and Krissy in the privacy of the tent, the only way they could know that information was if they were the thieves. The bank money was found at the bottom of the trash can where Kelly discovered the polka-dot bandanas.

The Barb Goffman Presents series showcases

the best in modern mystery and crime stories,

personally selected by one of the most acclaimed

short stories authors and editors in the mystery

field, Barb Goffman, forBlack Cat Weekly.

EL CAZADOR (The Hunter),

by Tom Larsen

ONE

July 1976,

Guayaquil, Ecuador

El Cazador—The Hunter—waited. He knew the importance of patience. Not that he was afraid he would alert his target. No! His prey that morning was ancient, arthritic, and half-blind, afflicted with a palsy that left his right leg nearly useless.

Patience was important to build tension. The kill would be even more satisfying due to the wait. He had learned that over time, as he perfected his craft. So, he sat, perched on a mound of garbage at the entrance to a narrow alley between a Chinese restaurant and a television repair shop.

The sound of a truck rumbling along the street startled him. Was it the garbage truck already? Had he dozed off and missed his target? No, it was a military truck. Green-clad soldiers of the ruling junta headed back to base as the nightly curfew ended. The garbage truck was still an hour from arriving to pick up this disgusting mess. Throughout the night, street dogs had rooted through it. They tore open the thick black plastic bags, exposing the contents—clumps of rotting vegetables, mounds of decaying rice and sodden paper napkins.

The Hunter ignored or had become immune to the smell. Perhaps it was that the smell had pervaded his being to such an extent that he was now nothing more than a part of this pile of detritus. The idea made him smile, but not in a pleasant way. His thick rubbery lips drew back from his yellowed teeth. Deep creases, almost like scars, formed in his high fleshy cheekbones.

Trash. His mouth formed the word, but the sound was only in his head. That is what they think of us. The Catholics! The Priests!

The Hunter’s prey that morning was just that—a Catholic priest. The old cleric lived in a monastery up on the hill near Parque Samanes. Every morning in the pre-dawn hours, he took the bus downtown. Getting off at the central bus station, he walked the final twelve blocks to his destination—the end of Calle 49 SE, on the banks of the Río Guayas at its widest spot before it emptied into the Pacific Ocean.

The aged priest had dedicated his final years to ministering to those who inhabited the area. Sailors and fishermen too old to ply their trade, alcoholics, drug addicts, sneak thieves, and prostitutes made up his flock. The few people who knew of his work praised Father Diego Salamanca for his kindness and dedication to Christian principals.

The Hunter knew better. Salamanca was no different than the rest of them. He offered food, shelter, even salvation. But at what cost? To receive this charity, the supplicant had to pledge allegiance to the priest’s god. The priest would say that the poor fool had only to accept his god, but the Hunter knew better on that score too.

* * * *

Rats! They swarmed over The Hunter’s outstretched legs. He remained motionless, but inwardly he seethed. It wasn’t the thought of the disgusting, disease-carrying creatures with black souls touching his body that angered him so. It was their very existence in his homeland that enraged him. There had been no rats in Ecuador—in all South America—until the arrival of the Spaniards in the Sixteenth Century.

Sure, there were tiny mice-like creatures in the tropical forests, but nothing like these spitting, beady-eyed devils. They had stowed away on the sailing ships that arrived periodically in the harbor, and left a few weeks later, laden with massive amounts of gold.

The rats brought disease, but it was the Plague of Catholicism that destroyed the people’s will and enslaved them as surely as the heaviest iron chains.

* * * *

Thud! Scrape! Plop! The sound alerted The Hunter. It was the old priest. The muffled thud of his cane, a gnarled Ceibo limb, followed by the scraping sound of the man’s useless right leg being dragged across the pavement, followed by the heavy plop of his sandal-clad left foot, echoed through the stillness.

Tonight, was the night. The last night before the full moon. The moon itself was hidden by the thick coastal fog, but The Hunter, having spent his entire life in the countryside outside of Saraguro, felt the phases of the moon in his soul.

He scrambled to his feet and crossed the wide sidewalk that looked to have recently been hit by a barrage of mortar shells, and stepped from behind the concrete column that supported the overhanging second story of the building. When he entered the street, he found himself face-to-face with Father Diego Salamanca.

The priest halted in mid-step and almost fell to the ground. He squinted his eyes, attempting to bring this odd-looking individual into focus. The Hunter was dressed all in black. In the manner of dress of his people, his pant legs extended only to mid-calf and the sleeves of his black poncho ended midway between his elbows and his wrist. For everyday wear, his outfit would include a white shirt and a sort of bowler hat. His long hair would be tied back in a single braid.

But tonight, he was The Hunter, not some ignorant campesino. He wore no shirt or hat, his clothes were ragged and filthy, and he let his greasy black hair fall where it may, partially obscuring his face.

You are Diego Salamanca?

TWO

I am Father Salamanca, the priest said, his voice raspy from disuse.

Then you must answer for your sins!

What? The priest didn’t understand. I confess my sins every day, he said, his voice a little stronger now.

I didn’t say confess your sins. Anyone can do that. The Hunter moved closer, bringing his stench along with him. I said to answer for your sins. The sins of the church.

The sins of the church? Salamanca recoiled at the idea. Oh, no, son, you see—

I am not your son! The Hunter’s thunderous voice echoed off the concrete buildings.

But you see; don’t you? The church is an instrument of God. As such She is incapable of sin.

Incapable of sin? The Hunter’s voice rose in volume as well as pitch, until it was more a shriek than a statement. What about the hundreds of thousands of the Indigenous that you enslaved, forcing them to abandon the old ways and to accept your religion. And slaughtered them if they refused.

Puzzled, Salamanca replied, They were given the opportunity to embrace the word of God—the One True Word. Surely you can see that. The priest smiled for the first time, believing himself to be on firm moral footing. Surely that would satisfy this strange man. His smile faded when The Hunter’s long dirt-stained fingers closed around his neck.

I will give you one more chance. More than you deserve. The Hunter took a step back but kept his hands where they were. Answer for your sins, Diego Salamanca. And for the sins of your church.

Salamanca slowly shook his head side to side. I am afraid I cannot do that. As I said—

The sound that escaped The Hunter’s lips could have been a sigh, or it could have been a grunt of despair. Salamanca would never know because at the same time, he felt the hands tightening around his throat and the filthy fingernails digging into his flesh.

The Hunter threw back his head and sent a silent howl toward the sky, which had now begun to lighten in the east. His body trembled for a few seconds and then he heaved an enormous sigh, his triumph fading away to sadness.

All you had to do, he said, was to admit the harm that you and your church have done. He released his grip and the old priest slumped to the pavement, his face a hideous mask of pain and astonishment.

THREE

Newly promoted Captain Juan Ortega was in a foul mood. Those who served with him in Ecuador’s policía nacional would say that was the big man’s default setting. He had only agreed to the one-week training session at the FBI’s South Florida field office so that his wife Teresa could visit her sister. And shop. Teresa loved to shop in Miami. In Ecuador you can buy a multitude of things cheaply, but they wear out or fall apart quickly. Or you can buy good quality products and pay an exorbitant price, because of the tax the government puts on foreign goods. In Miami, thanks to America ingenuity, you could get good quality at affordable prices.

Ortega wasn’t seeing any of that American ingenuity on display in the cramped windowless conference room in which he found himself. The speaker, a stout man wearing khaki slacks and a plaid jacket, gave his spiel in English and a young dark-haired woman translated what he had said for the assembled group—police officers from Mexico, Argentina, Ecuador, and Colombia.

The study of serial killers is in its infancy, the speaker said, with more enthusiasm than the statement seemed to warrant. He adjusted his tie and brushed his hand over his blond brush cut. In fact, my partner and I only recently came up with the term. He indicated a slight brown-haired man in the front row who wore his hair long with mutton-chop sideburns. He appeared to have bought his suit in the kid’s section.

A hand shot up from the Mexican contingent and the instructor turned his attention in that direction.

What defines a serial killer? the Mexican cop said, using flawless English.

Excellent question! The instructor smiled, the questioner beamed, and Ortega’s frown deepened.

The term ‘serial killings’ refers to a series of three or more killings, having common characteristics such as to suggest the reasonable possibility that the crimes were committed by the same perpetrator or perpetrators.

Ortega caught a few of the words in English but waited for the translator to finish her job. The captain’s voice had been described as ‘a lion’s roar,’ and ‘the croak of a bullfrog,’ among others. One thing was certain. Captain Ortega would be heard.

Then if a perpetrator, or perpetrators, Ortega said without raising his hand, rob a bank or a store, and kill three people. That is a serial killing?

The instructor waited for the translation, then he smiled in a way that Ortega found condescending.

No, he said. Not at all. Now, if they managed to kill four persons. He held up four stubby fingers to emphasize the point. That would be considered a mass murder. Again, he waited for the translator to finish before continuing. Do you understand?

The instructor was already preparing to move on to the next part of his presentation, but Ortega’s foghorn voice boomed out once more.

I understand, he said, that there are no serial killers in Ecuador.

FOUR

Captain Ortega sat at a table in the hotel restaurant, sipping red wine and enjoying the solitude. Soon enough Teresa and her sister Diana would meet him for dinner, after a day spent laying waste to the shops and boutiques of Miami.

I can only hope, Ortega thought, that Diana doesn’t bring along her husband. Roberto Monsalves was a boor of the highest order. He had escaped Cuba in 1969, surviving for two weeks clinging to a capsized rowboat. He now owned a chain of seven optical stores in Little Havana.

Come to Miami, Juanito, he would say after a bottle or two of the good Chilean red that he favored. I’ll set you up in one of my stores. Assistant manager at first, but… His wink was truly grotesque, made more offensive by the way he presumed to use Ortega’s nickname, the name that he allowed only his wife to use. Ortega despised the man.

I am a detective in the national police! he said one time. When Monsalves laughed and dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand, only Teresa’s firm hand on his forearm kept Ortega from launching himself across the table at him.

* * * *

Ortega unconsciously opened and closed his hands on the table in front of him as he imagined them closing around the throat of his overbearing brother-in-law. He drained half the wine in his glass in one pull. In doing so he noticed his superior officer striding across the room in his direction.

Ortega wasn’t sure if he disliked this man more or less than he did his brother-in-law. Either way it was a close contest. He dipped his head slightly, in hopes that the commander would pass him by without noticing. But he couldn’t hold it for long. Juan Ortega lowers his head for no man! When he looked up, Federico Garcia, the regional commander for Zone Six of the policía nacional, was pulling out the chair directly opposite him.

Captain Ortega was big for an ecuatoriano, nearly six feet tall and weighing nearly eighty kilos. In fact, he had been a standout in the goal for his hometown youth soccer team—Los Tigres de Cuenca. A devastating knee injury at nineteen crushed any hopes for a professional career, but he had done all right for himself. After serving his compulsory two years in the military, he returned to Cuenca, married his high school sweetheart, and began his career with the national police. Now at thirty-eight he was the youngest man ever to be granted captain’s bars.

* * * *

Wasn’t that presentation enlightening, Lieutenant?

Captain, Ortega said. Instinctively he touched his shoulders where the double gold bars would be if he were in uniform. I’m a captain now. Remember?

Yes, yes. Of course, I remember. I pinned the bars on you myself. One of my first acts as commander,

Ortega grunted and Garcia assumed, incorrectly, that his insulting lapse in memory had been forgotten. Juan Ortega never forgot. Still, the captain was a political animal, and this scrawny little pendejo held the key to his future with the force. He twisted his face into what might pass for a smile.

"What did you find particularly enlightening, comandante?"

Why, the part where he said that all serial killers either take something from their victims—a trophy—or they leave something behind.

Why would they do that? Leave something behind. Wouldn’t that be a clue?

Garcia narrowed his eyes and stared at Ortega across the table. Was this some of the so-called humor the big slob was famous for? Or was it mockery? That seemed more likely. Well, he would deal with that later. Right now, he was too excited by what he had learned.

Don’t you see? he said. The killer wants to be caught.

Once again, the commander’s assumption was incorrect. Ortega wasn’t attempting humor, nor was he mocking his superior officer. In fact, he had tuned out the rest of the agent’s lecture and had no idea what his boss was talking about.

He wants to get caught. The killer.

Exactly! The killer is driven to kill, but subconsciously he wants to be punished for his sins.

That makes no sense. Ortega said. I have arrested thirty-five murderers in my career. The most of any detective in Cuenca, by the way. and—

What about the one you didn’t arrest? Garcia’s sly smile and the way he hunched over made Ortega think of a small grey mouse. But the commander’s taunt hit home all the same. He had been unable to lay hands on the killer of the priest found dead on the steps of the Santa Rosa Cathedral two years earlier. The case was baffling. There were no witnesses, and seemingly no motive. What reason could anyone have for murdering a kindly middle-aged priest who appeared to be loved by all?

Ortega had worked the case in his usual manner; full-on twenty-four hours a day. He interviewed everyone from the bishop down to the old man who swept out the church. But even a high-profile case like this one eventually goes cold. Ortega moved on, and his co-workers quickly learned not to bring it up in the big man’s presence. But here was el comandante himself, raising the dead, so to speak.

Ortega peered across the table with his little rat eyes behind thick, black-framed glasses, trying to gauge the captain’s reaction. Where Ortega was big and muscular, just starting to go to fat, the commander was small and skinny, even by Ecuadorian standards. His suit, purchased at one of Cuenca’s higher end clothiers, probably cost twice as much as the one Ortega wore, but looked as if it had been tailored for someone else. Ortega’s, made to order by a wizened old tailor who owed the captain more than he could ever repay, molded around his body like a second skin.

* * * *

That’s right, Garcia said. I forgot. You don’t think there are any serial killers in Ecuador.

No, I don’t, Ortega responded. "Ecuatorianos are not that complicated. They kill for three reasons—love, hate, or money." It occurred to him that the commander had taken his pronouncement during the lecture as something of a personal insult. He wanted desperately for there to be serial killers in Ecuador, specifically in Cuenca, for no other reason that it would look good on his—the commander’s—resume. But the idea that whoever had killed the priest was a serial killer? That was ludicrous.

"With all due respect, Señor Comandante—"

You say that a lot, you know, Garcia interrupted.

Say what, Sir?

Whenever you say, ‘With all due respect,’ I know that what follows will be most disrespectful.

Well, Sir, be that as it may, I—

Juanito! The booming voice of Ortega’s brother-in-law silenced all conversation in the small restaurant. And there he was, striding toward the table with his hand outstretched, oblivious to the annoyed stares and grumbled complaints in his wake. Teresa and Diana followed.

I won’t keep you. The commander stood up from the table. I see you have company. He leaned in toward Ortega, his face maddeningly calm and his voice barely above a whisper. "When we get back to Cuenca, you will re-open the priest murder case, and you will stay with it until