The Viola Brothers Shore Mystery MEGAPACK®

Contents

COPYRIGHT INFO

A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

THE MACKENZIE CASE

OPALS ARE BAD LUCK

THE CASE OF KAREN SMITH

’BYE ’BYE BLUEBEARD

EVERYBODY’S NAME IS JONES

THE HERITAGE

MARY MARY

DIMI AND THE DOUBLE LIFE

IF YOU WANT A THING—

A MESS OF POTTAGE

WE CAN’T AFFORD IT

MATZOTHS CAST UPON THE WATERS

O TEMPORA! O MAWRUSS!

PERCHANCE

JUDGEMENT, UMPIRE!

MY FRIEND

IN JUNE

AFTER A DAY AND A YEAR

The MEGAPACK® Ebook Series

COPYRIGHT INFO

The Viola Brothers Shore Mystery MEGAPACK® is copyright © 2017 by Wildside Press, LLC. All rights reserved.

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The MEGAPACK® ebook series name is a trademark of Wildside Press, LLC. All rights reserved.

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The Mackenzie Case originally appeared in Mystery League, January 1934.

Opals Are Bad Luck originally appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, January 1943. Copyright © 1943, 1970 by Davis Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the family of Viola Brothers Shore.

The Case of Karen Smith originally appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, July 1950, 1977 by Davis Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the family of Viola Brothers Shore.

’Bye ’Bye Bluebeard originally appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, July 1950, 1977 by Davis Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the family of Viola Brothers Shore.

Everybody’s Name Is Jones originally appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, March 1952, 1980 by Davis Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the family of Viola Brothers Shore.

The Heritage, Mary Mary, Dimi and the Double Life, If You Want a Thing—, A Mess of Pottage, We Can’t Afford It, Matzoths Cast Upon the Waters, and O Tempora! O Mawruss! are taken from Heritage and Other Stories (1921).

Perchance originally appeared in All-Story Weekly, December 15 1917.

Judgement, Umpire! originally appeared in All-Story Weekly, June 9 1917.

My Friend originally appeared in in All-Story Weekly, May 31 1919.

In June originally appeared in All-Story Weekly, June 21 1919.

After a Day and a Year originally appeared in All-Story Weekly, June 14 1919.

A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

Viola Brothers Shore (1890-1970) was an American author who worked in a variety of mediums from the 1910s through the 1930s. Married three times, she began her writing career as a poet and a writer of short stories and articles or magazines. Towards the end of the silent film era, she began writing screenplays, and eventually expanded into theatrical plays and novels. Her daughter, Wilma Shore, was also a successful writer.

Viola Brothers Shore was named during the hearings of the House Committee on Un-American Activities, along with her third husband, Haskoll Gleichman, and her daughter. In her later years she taught at New York University (NYU).

She is best remembered today for her mystery stories and her Jewish-themed stories. Her mysteries appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine in the 1940s and 1950s. She also published two mystery novels, The Beauty Mask Murder (1930) and Murder on the Glass Floor (1932).

Although this collection focuses on mysteries, it also includes several poems and the complete contents of her 1921 short story collection, Heritage and Other Stories, which provides a good sampling of her mainstream fiction.

Enjoy!

—John Betancourt

Publisher, Wildside Press LLC

www.wildsidepress.com

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THE MACKENZIE CASE

Originally published in 1934.

So you had a dull trip down, laughed Clarence Cobb, our host, after some sally by my wife about our recent fellow passengers.

Five of us were sipping frappés on the terrace, while Mrs. Cobb showed Erik Schroeder her tropical gardens by moonlight. The Cobbs have a beautiful home outside Havana and at their request we had brought with us three dinner guests—Dr. Whitmore, the ship’s surgeon; Erik Schroeder; and Leni Dill, a pretty girl in whom Schroeder had shown some interest during the trip. None of us, except Schroeder and my wife, had anything to do with the Mackenzie case.

So dull that a man jumped overboard the first night out of New York, replied my wife.

The first night out! Clarence Cobb is a lawyer. That’s unusual. Ordinarily they wait a little longer.

That’s what struck me, too, commented my wife, lightly.

Are you in earnest? demanded Leni Dill. You mean a man really jumped off our boat?

Ask the doctor, replied Gwynn. I don’t suppose there’s any reason for keeping it secret any longer.

Dr. Whitmore regarded my wife curiously. How did you know, Mrs. Keats?

Trust Gwynn, chuckled Clarence Cobb. Don’t you know she’s the famous Gwynn Leith? And her husband there is Colin Keats, who Dr. Watsons her.

The doctor, it seems, recalled my book on the Hanaford murder. Gwynn laughed off his awe. "I just happened to have a lucky hunch. But Mr. Schroeder is a real detective."

Leni Dill almost jumped out of her chair. Erik Schroeder—? He told me he was a big game hunter!

Everybody laughed. He’s solved more crimes than any man in the country, said Gwynn. But he doesn’t happen to have a husband to write him up.

I didn’t hear any mention of a suicide, remarked Clarence Cobb.

It was kept very quiet, explained the ship’s surgeon. The Captain didn’t want the other passengers distressed. He was somebody utterly unknown—secretary to a wealthy man on board.

How do you know Mackenzie is wealthy? inquired Gwynn.

Well, a man who travels with a secretary— argued the doctor.

Oh.… I see.… said Gwynn with that look of complete innocence which immediately made me demand:

What makes you think he isn’t?

Well—for one thing, he didn’t tip his steward.

Perhaps that was the Scotch in him, I suggested, a little annoyed that my wife had not taken me into her confidence.

But that first night—up in the bar—he insisted on treating everybody in sight—

Maybe that was the rye in him.

Tell us about it, coaxed Leni Dill. Gwynn referred the question to the doctor.

All I know is that Schmidt went overboard some time Wednesday night, and nobody knows why or how.

Oh, come, protested Gwynn. I saw you talking earnestly to Mackenzie in the bar after dinner.

"He was merely complaining of not feeling well and I told him there are people who become ill as soon as they get on a boat. He said his secretary must be of that type, because he had gone to bed as soon as the engines started. He had had the man out on the deck for a while, but he was so ill Mackenzie had had to put him back in bed. However, Mackenzie himself had crossed a dozen times and never felt sick. So I inquired what they had eaten for lunch. And when I heard tuna fish salad, I decided they were both suffering from ptomaine poisoning and suggested having a look at the secretary.

But he asked me not to. ‘He’s just dropped off to sleep,’ he told me. ‘He wouldn’t let me send for you. Ardent Scientist, you know. But I’m not, so if there’s anything you can recommend for me—’ And that’s all I know except that Mackenzie was quite sick for the balance of the trip.

But why did Schmidt commit suicide? insisted Leni.

Nobody knows. Nobody had ever spoken to the man. Even Mackenzie didn’t know anything about his private life. Schmidt had been in his employ only a few days.

Well, but how did you know he committed suicide?

He wasn’t anywhere on the boat.

But how did you discover he wasn’t? persisted Leni.

From the stewards. When Mackenzie became ill he took another room on A deck and sent down a steward for his bag, cautioning him not to disturb Mr. Schmidt. The steward reported that Mr. Schmidt wasn’t in the room. Later the C deck steward reported that he couldn’t find him. Well, after a boat has been searched, there’s only one thing to think, isn’t there?

Except, of course, why he did it, suggested Gwynn. What else did the steward on C deck have to report?

"He only verified what Mackenzie had said. Soon after they came on board the one man went to bed. Later the other man—that was Mackenzie—rang and asked him to carry a chair out to C deck. Together they helped the sick man out. He was very sick. When the steward had freshened up the berth, he was slumped over the railing, his head on his arms, and his face looked ghastly. The steward suggested getting me. But although the man was so sick that Mackenzie had to bend down to get his answer, he wouldn’t have me.

"Some time during dinner the steward went to 361 in answer to the bell. Mackenzie met him in the companionway and told him Schmidt had dropped off to sleep. ‘But you might look in,’ he said, ‘in a couple of hours and see if he wants anything. I’m going up on deck. Feeling a little rocky myself.’ And according to the steward, he did look rocky."

I thought he did, too, said Gwynn, but he insisted on buying more and more drinks. When he got the color of ashes of split-pea soup, I took him out on deck and heard all about how he came from Alberta; had been in the States only for short visits; how Schmidt had told him a hard-luck story, but was evidently incompetent, having selected doubtful tuna and an inferior room, to which Mackenzie couldn’t bear to return—particularly as he had given Schmidt the lower. So I suggested that he get another room.

I noticed you were taking quite an interest in him, I remarked, in the immemorial manner of husbands.

Oh, laughed my wife, I’m just a child at heart and I was fascinated by his wrist watch.

Were you in his room the morning I couldn’t find you?

You bet. But his passion for my company seemed to have waned.

Serves you right. You just went in there to snoop around. Did you find anything?

Two things, replied my wife. A faint odor of ipecac and a mirror that swung with the boat.

And what did they tell the Great Mind?

The mirror told me that the handsome Mr. Mackenzie didn’t like my visit—in fact, if I’m not reading too much into a mere look, he was fairly terrified. And the ipecac—well, it’s what you give croupy babies to make them vomit, isn’t it, Doctor?

Why, Gwynn! exclaimed Helen Cobb from the doorway, where she had been standing with Schroeder. You haven’t been sleuthing in competition with the Real Thing?

Erik Schroeder looked at my wife out of shrewd blue eyes. He has white hair and the hawklike features of the Conan Doyle tradition.

Leni Dill eyed him accusingly. Erik! You never told me there was a suicide. And Mrs. Keats knew all about it!

That was because I had the luck to be in the next room to Mr. Mackenzie, said Gwynn.

I snickered. I don’t suppose you were the one who saw the Purser about getting him that room—7

"Well, but I had the luck to see the Captain and the First Officer go in there and to hear the doctor tell them Mr. Mackenzie was too ill to be questioned. And considering that somebody had been inquiring after Mr. Schmidt—and the engines had been reversed—I couldn’t help inferring something. But I daresay Mr. Schroeder knows all about it, since he went in there with the Captain."

I wasn’t there officially, smiled Schroeder. The Captain merely asked me to step in while he questioned Mackenzie. And I went over Schmidt’s belongings to see if we could discover his identity. But there wasn’t a scrap of paper—nothing that would give a clue.

That wasn’t what I gathered from our steward, said Gwynn. What did you gather from your steward?

That you had found some handkerchiefs and things monogrammed P.S.—of fine quality, but not new—which led to the belief that Mr. Schmidt had once had money. All the other things—the newer ones— were of very inferior quality.

Well, that’s true, admitted Schroeder. I thought it might supply a motive—a man who had come down in the world and couldn’t take it.

But on the other hand, suggested Clarence Cobb, he had a job— Schroeder shrugged. "And don’t you think it strange that he carried nothing to identify him?"

"As if somebody had gone through his things and removed anything that might—" supplemented my wife.

Look here, Mrs. Keats, said Schroeder, just what have you in mind?

What I bet you also had in mind, Mr. Schroeder…that Mr. Mackenzie murdered his secretary.

Gwynn! I cried. The others looked at her in various degrees of amazement. When the doctor recovered his voice he was thoroughly outraged. Mackenzie was an exceptionally charming man. Schmidt had simply gone overboard.

"But why?"

Violently seasick people often contemplate suicide. The man was probably a neurotic.

Ardent Scientists are never neurotics, reproved Gwynn. Mr. Mackenzie must have overlooked that when he talked it over with you.

The doctor looked irritated. I imagine sometimes Scientists go out of their minds. Even the steward said how terribly sick he was.

So sick that two of them had to help him out on deck.

Schroeder had not taken his eyes from my wife’s face—troubled eyes. What makes you think it wasn’t suicide, Mrs. Keats?

Just a hunch, replied Gwynn.

Schroeder continued to look grave. And what else?

Well—there was one thing, at least, that should have been in Schmidt’s bag.

And what was that?

Mrs. Eddy’s book. Don’t you think an ardent Scientist would have had it with him on the trip?

The ghost of a smile narrowed Erik Schroeder’s eyes. I commented on that, but the Captain seemed satisfied—and I’m on a holiday. Besides, there doesn’t seem to be much motive for a man to murder his secretary.

"You have only Mackenzie’s word that Schmidt was his secretary—"

He’s listed that way, protested the doctor. "Wm. R. Mackenzie and Secretary."

Suppose a man had found his secretary making love to his wife, suggested Leni.

Hardly likely, said Schroeder. Mackenzie is a handsome, engaging young man and according to the steward, Schmidt was middle-aged and plain.

Tell me, asked Gwynn. Was Schmidt a bigger man than Mackenzie?

No, smaller. Why?

Did you happen to notice Mackenzie’s wrist watch?

An ordinary silver watch with a leather strap. I’ve seen them in Canada for a pound sterling.

And it didn’t strike you as odd—?

Many rich men wear cheap watches while traveling. Particularly a Scotchman might—

But I mean about the leather strap.

It was apparently much worn—

What does it mean when one eyelet is badly worn, the others not at all?

The worn one has been used, volunteered Clarence.

Well, the eyelet that fastened the strap firmly around Mackenzie’s wrist wasn’t the used one. It was three farther down. So it looked as though the watch had been worn for a long time by somebody with a smaller wrist than Mr. Mackenzie and had only recently been taken over by Mr. M.

May I use your phone? asked Schroeder. Clarence went with him and I strained my ears, but the conversation was in Spanish.

Helen Cobb’s eyes widened. My gracious, Gwynn, you’ve started something. He’s speaking to the Commissioner of Police!

I know—he’s suggesting holding Mackenzie for further questioning. They naturally asked him to stay in Havana for the routine investigation. But he hasn’t stirred out of his room since we landed.

I suppose that’s what you were discussing with the chambermaid this morning?

It was, replied Gwynn, utterly unabashed. I was trying to figure out some excuse for calling on him. I’d like to ask him how he came to hire a secretary—without references.

* * * *

Gwynn certainly plays in luck. When we reached the National, there was a message from Mackenzie asking us to call him. We stopped at his room instead. William Mackenzie could not have been over twenty-six, with a fine athletic frame and a lot of curly hair and gray-blue eyes in which there was something helplessly worried as he begged us to come in.

He told us the Commissioner had been there, wearing him down with questions about Schmidt. I think Schroeder put him up to it. He’s darned clever, Schroeder. Of course I stuck to what I told them all along.

Why not, if it’s true?

But it isn’t, said Mackenzie. I hoped he didn’t see the look Gwynn shot me out of those absurdly expressive brown eyes. We had sailed as Mackenzie and Secretary and I didn’t see, why certain things should be dragged in that I was anxious to keep quiet. But this Cuban chap put the screws on me pretty hard. And I’m anxious to get away. You’re the only people I know in this part of the world, and I’d like to ask your advice.

I did not look at my wife although, in case I have not mentioned it, she is very easy to look at, with dark hair going off one ear and towards the other in a natural swirl, and clothes that always make other women look either overdressed or undergroomed.

Last Thursday, began Mackenzie, "I arrived in New York with my wife. We went to the Wendham Hotel. Saturday morning, a little before ten, I went out to keep a business engagement. When I came back, my wife was not there. And she was not in the dining room, or anywhere in the hotel. I opened her closet and it was bare. The bureau was empty, too. Everything belonging to my wife had been cleaned out of the place!

"While I was trying to grasp what could have happened, there was a knock at the door. A strange man stepped into the room.

"‘Look here, Mr. Mackenzie,’ he said, ‘my name is Schmidt. I’m the house detective. I was next to the operator when you called down to ask about Mrs. Mackenzie.’ And he told me he had seen my wife drive off with her bags, but had thought it better to say nothing downstairs in case there was anything in the nature of a scandal. Because there had been a man in the cab—also with bags.

"You have to understand the relationship between my wife and myself to realize my state of mind. Three years ago I took a trip to Hollywood and met my wife, who was working in pictures. In ten days we were married. Since then we had never been separated for a day—hardly an hour. And now she was gone …with another man! I was utterly stunned and grateful for this stranger’s help. Alone I would not have known where to turn.

"I hadn’t the faintest notion of who this other man could be. We had been in New York only two days, and together all the time. She hadn’t known until the day we left that she was coming. How could she have arranged an elopement? And up on the farm we lived a very secluded life. The few people who visited us were old friends of mine.

Schmidt went out to make some inquiries. The more I thought, the more I was baffled. I admit I have a jealous nature and I had always been watchful. I could recall nothing—no absence—no letters—no mysterious phone calls that should have made me suspicious at the time, or that offered any clue as I paced my room, waiting for Schmidt.

And being a suspicious man, you hadn’t asked Schmidt anything about himself? inquired Gwynn.

Why, no. He was the house detective—and besides I was too upset to think about him. And of course I didn’t know he was going to jump off a boat and get me in a mess.

Of course not. I suppose he asked you for money.

I gave him a little for immediate expenses. Later, of course, I furnished money for cables and bribes and all sorts of things—a lot of money, he concluded ruefully.

"He came back to say that the starter recalled it was a Yellow Cab, and also the man in the cab, but not his appearance. We agreed not to mention anything to anybody, since I was eager to avoid scandal and the hotel people might resent his conduct. But he was sick of his job and eager to start off as a private investigator.

"Finally he found a driver who had been picked up by a man with a gladstone bag and stopped at the Wendham for a lady answering the description of Mrs. Mackenzie. He had driven them to the Ward Line pier. The Orizaba had sailed that Saturday. And Schmidt’s next report was that a tall blonde in a black coat with a Persian collar and a man with a gladstone bag had sailed on the Orizaba.

Schmidt offered to trail them. Of course I wanted to go, too. He made all the arrangements. I was too stunned to do more than follow his instructions. I swear to God that’s all I know about Philip Schmidt. But you can see why I didn’t immediately blurt it out when I was questioned.

Of course, said Gwynn. You certainly seem to be having hard luck. And now that you’re eager to be after your wife, they hold you here. Have you made any inquiries at all?

No. I didn’t think it wise—feeling that I was under surveillance.

* * * *

There! said I to my wife as we were getting ready for bed. What do you think of your murder case now?

I admit I have an entirely different slant on it. Let’s talk to Schroeder tomorrow… But doesn’t it seem funny that Schmidt, having secured the kind of job he wanted, should take himself off so mysteriously? And she began to sing: ‘Just for a handful of ptomaine he left us—’

I turned out the light.

* * * *

The next day we called at Schroeder’s hotel. He had already seen Mackenzie, who, on Gwynn’s advice, had told him the story. Schroeder was surprised that Mackenzie had confided in us.

It’s because I wore my Girl Scout badge, said Gwynn. Matter of fact, I don’t know whether he wanted our advice half so much as our money. He was dying to get us into a game.

What kind of game?

Any kind—as soon as he heard we were bad money players.

I am always amazed at how mean and suspicious Gwynn can be when she doesn’t like a person.

I don’t like him, either, admitted Schroeder, "but I’ve checked his story. Mackenzie and wife registered at the Wendham from Edmonton. She left two days later. However, the starter couldn’t recall whether she left alone, and denied having given any information about a Yellow Cab. In fact, Schmidt was unknown at the Wendham and they employed no house detective.

So any deception seems to have been on the part of Schmidt. I haven’t the faintest idea what his game was. But since he’s gone, why bother? We have also had word from Edmonton that a William R. Mackenzie lives there, and that he left last week for New York with his wife. So there seems no further reason for holding Mackenzie and I understand the Cuban police have told him he may go.

May I make a suggestion? said Gwynn. Before he checks out, ask him what his business was in New York, and what his wife’s name is. Perhaps, if he is so anxious to trace her, he will show you a picture.

But why? What have you in mind?

Nothing, replied Gwynn, only I’d like to see the type of woman who would run out on a man like Mackenzie. Of course, it may have been his stinginess. But then, there was that lavish display in the bar. If a tight man loosens up to that extent, there must be some reason. The reason is missing. A lot of things are missing. Principally why Schmidt killed himself.

* * * *

The following morning Mackenzie tapped on our door to ask us whether we wouldn’t care for a chukker of backgammon—which we wouldn’t— and to tell us he had been released by the authorities.

That’s fine, said Gwynn. I suppose you can’t wait to start looking for your wife. How are you going about it?

He gestured helplessly. I don’t know where to begin.

How about the Commissioner? I suggested.

How about Erik Schroeder? suggested Gwynn. If anybody can find her, Schroeder can.

But he’ll want too much money. And besides, I don’t like him. What concern is it of his what my business was in New York? Matter of fact, I wouldn’t mind telling it to you. If you’re writers, you might be able to use it. It would make a great yam.

My wife and I exchanged that certain look. Everybody has a story that would make a great yam. And everybody is so generous in the manner of telling it!

"I’ve been working on an invention in Canada. I needn’t tell you what it is—but it has to do with film. It should be worth a fortune if properly marketed. Of course it’s tough dealing with those big corporations and the proper approach is as important as the invention.

Well, one day I got a letter from a man named Paul Stone outlining a scheme for promoting my patent. And the details of the scheme were exactly as I had dreamed them. I don’t know how he got wind of my invention, because I kept it very quiet. I have my own laboratory. My wife helped me and not another soul knew about it. Naturally I wrote back to Stone and he suggested that I come to New York and talk it over. He wanted me to come alone, but at the last minute I decided to take my wife. I felt she was entitled to a trip.

Also, wives get into trouble if they’re left alone.

I thought of that. So she came along.

Eagerly, I’ll bet?

Well, of course, she claimed she had no clothes, but—This fellow Stone had reserved a room for me at the Wendham and we went there. I found a wire saying he had been called out of town, but would be back Saturday. So my wife and I went sightseeing and Saturday morning Stone phoned and asked me to meet him in the lobby of the Alamac.

Up on 71st Street?

That’s it. Well, I waited awhile, and then had him paged, and then waited some more. Then I inquired at the desk whether he was in his room. They told me there was no Paul Stone registered at the Alamac! I didn’t know what to make of it, because I had always written him there. However, he had brought me all the way from Alberta for that appointment and I was sure he meant to keep it. But at one o’clock I went back to my own hotel. And would you believe it—I never heard another word from Stone? What do you make of that?

I make that Mr. Stone was very eager to get Mr. Mackenzie out of the way so that Mrs. Mackenzie could get out of the Wendham. I make also that Mrs. Mackenzie prompted Mr. Stone’s entire correspondence. There is always an accommodating laundress to receive mail, or a farmer’s wife who brings around fresh eggs… The decision to take Mrs. Mackenzie to New York probably upset the original plan. If Mr. Mackenzie had gone alone, he would perhaps not have heard from Mr. Stone at all. Nor found Mrs. Mackenzie back on the farm in Edmonton.

Mackenzie looked stupefied, then furious. What a fool I’ve been! I’ll put Schroeder on her track—no matter what it costs! Where is Schroeder? I want to see him!

We offered to take him to Schroeder’s hotel. On the way out we stopped for the mail. Mackenzie tore open a letter and read it, a puzzled frown between his brows.

What do you make of this? he demanded, holding it out to me.

‘Darling Philip—’ it began.

I looked up. For Schmidt?

He held out the envelope. It was addressed to Philip Schmidt, Care William R. Mackenzie, Hotel Nacional, and bore a Cuban stamp.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have opened it, but—you understand. Read it, he urged.

When I sent that wire to the boat I really meant to patch things up with Emilio and never see you again. But last night he was drunk again—terribly—Oh my darling this time I mean it. I will go away with you—Come at once. I need you. Love—love—love—

C—

It seemed plain enough then. Schmidt had wanted to get to Havana. In some way he got wind of Mrs. Mackenzie’s flight and played on Mackenzie’s credulity and distress to work the trip. On the boat he received a cable from his Señora calling the deal off. Curtain for Mr. Schmidt.

I was so pleased with my perspicuity that I blurted it out, not thinking of the effect on Mackenzie. I suppose subconsciously I felt I was doing him a good turn. I didn’t realize that all along he had been buoyed up by the hope and excitement of the chase. With the prop removed he was in a bad way. No use now in seeing Schroeder. No use in anything.

He seemed on the point of collapse, and I did what I could for him. It was pitiful the way he clung to us. By nightfall Gwynn had a headache, but I went in and played cards with him. And the next morning, as the headache persisted, we started off without her for Morro Castle. He looked wretched and there was a feverish light in his eyes. As I look back now I can understand it. His manner became more and more curious. He carried a Panama hat; but although the sun was doing its tropical best, he refused to put it on. And under his arm he clutched a package as though it contained rubies. I remember, before we left, Gwynn moved the package and he jumped and took it away from her and held it on his lap until I was ready to go.

Clarence Cobb had sent us a Captain of the Militia to act as guide. As he walked around the outside of the fortress, Mackenzie kept asking about sharks. The Captain told us stories. Vivid stories. They