The Paperback Show Murders by Robert Reginald Page A

was, then.”
    â€œYou don’t seem to know very much about these events, for all that you’ve named your late boyfriend the killer.”
    â€œWell, I know what I know, Lieutenant, and I’m convinced, sorry to say, that Brody Dameen killed Lissa Boaz.”
    â€œWhat about Mr. van Noland?”
    â€œWhat about him?”
    â€œAccording to your testimony, he got the book or books from Mr. Dameen.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhen we went through the stock laid out on his table, and also examined the contents of his room, we found the Tarzan novel clutched in his hand—and no trace of The Secret of Castle Dred .”
    â€œLike I said, I don’t know anything about his death.”
    â€œDo you have the book?” the policeman asked.
    â€œNo, of course not. What would I want with something like that?”
    â€œI don’t know. I don’t know what anyone would want with it, unless that person was the killer.”
    I interrupted at this point: “Lieutenant,” I said, “Mr. van Noland was not well liked in the business. He made many enemies, both among the collectors and among his fellow dealers. Maybe he tried to drive too hard a bargain for what was certainly a rarity: the only known signed copy of the first original gothic novel published in the paperback field. Anybody could have killed him.”
    â€œYes, but that ‘anybody’ had to have a good enough reason.”
    â€œTo own one of a kind?—that’s reason enough for certain fans. You don’t know how rabid some of these folks can be.”
    And we went on and on from there, with Pfisch questioning Margie at length, and then Gully again—and even me—but in the end he finally decided to leave things as they were.
    â€œVery well,” he said. “We’ll take you at your word, Ms. Foyle, and identify Mr. Dameen as Ms. Boaz’s killer. Mr. Dameen’s demise will be listed as an accidental death. And we’ll continue looking for Mr. van Noland’s murderer.”
    Of course, they never found him, and the case remains open to this day. The fiftieth Paperback Exposition and Show ground down to an ignominious end; our coordinator, Tomás Law, vowed never to return to Santo Verdugo again.
    Margie and I packed away our remaining offerings, after making a couple of under-the-counter deals with our fellow bookmongers, and loaded everything back in the van. Then we went out to dinner.

EPILOGUE
    â€œA CHORUS OF OLÉS”
    Sunday, March 27
    â€œI spat into the face of Vimius Nuyance, Percolator of Gore. ‘I’ll drink iced tea before surrendering my manhood to your tutelage,’ I said.
    â€œThen I hopped onto the saddle of my chickie-poo, dug my spurs into its succulent thighs, and gripped the stirrup as the giant bird leapt into the sky.
    â€œâ€˜Get him!’ shouted the ruler, and the great pigeonators of Gore mounted their sky-steeds, beating into the airwaves after me, and chirping their chorus of ‘olés’!
    â€œâ€˜What’th it going to be then, eh, Mathter?’ my luscious leaper lisped, beating her wings against the oncoming wind.
    â€œâ€˜Fly away! Fly away,’ I yelled over the swishing of the air apparent. Discretion is always the better part of valor.
    â€œBut there were just too many of them, and my chances of reaching Ailandia seemed slender to slim.
    â€œâ€˜Release the secret weapon!’ I ordered my chickie-poo, and a noxious mix of bug juice and splatter-yuck spewed out of the bird’s nether end towards the oncoming flock of sky-rats.
    â€œOne by one they went ‘Ewww,’ and dropped out of the race, until only Vimius himself remained. I banked into a nose-dive, and went right at the climbing clodhopper, drawing my snicker-snack from its purse. The Percolator tried to react—but too late! Blood spurted all over chickie-poo and my brand new uniform, which had been carefully knitted