Free The Paperback Show Murders by Robert Reginald Page A

to change my mind after the additional bodies began turning up around campus.
    â€œâ€˜What did these multitudinous victims have in common? Ah, that was the difficulty: to find the missing link, so to speak. I uncovered the key clue on the day when I was forced to eat on campus during an unexpected rainstorm, and found the food utterly disgusting and inedible. When I protested that fact to Mr. Dámaso, he said that I should ‘Go fish!’
    â€œâ€˜Those were the words written on the wall in ketchup above victim #6, Dr. Quarton—which I originally believed indicated the religious preferences of the killer. Perhaps I should have interpreted the sign more literally.
    â€œâ€˜Therefore, I can now identify the murderer without any doubt. It was…’—my audience leaned forward expectantly—‘…it was...Lieutenant Ynorr!’
    â€œâ€˜What?’ the policeman said. ‘You must be crazy.’
    â€œâ€˜Ah, no, you are the demented one, officer. Only you were available sometime after midnight on each of the days when a victim was killed. Lack of sleep can lead to serious psychological breakdowns—this is a well-known fact. It had to be you!’
    â€œâ€˜No, no, no!’ Dámaso shouted, jumping to his feet. ‘You don’t understand! I was a culinary genius—and none of you, not one, recognized my talent. You pooh-poohed my deviled tripe, you turned your collective noses down at my curried chicken tartare, you thought my fried and powdered road kill helper was poopeepie. Well, I showed you, didn’t I? The dish I served today, my Bon Homme Richard Appétit, represents new heights of culinary delight. Ha, ha, ha—and you thought it was pork! Ha, ha, ha.’
    â€œâ€˜Anyway, it was a good theory,’ Friand said. ‘I will send you my bill in the morning.’
    â€œAnd with that, the petit little French Guyanan made a formal bow, and exited stage left.”
    â€”The Case of the Curious Cuisine ,
    by Stanley Earl Silverstein (1958)
    Margie and I usually met over an early breakfast at the Eatery, before going into the exhibit hall, but she didn’t make an appearance that morning; and I was sitting there sipping my cup of hot tea and picking at my toast when Freddie the Cur plopped down across from me, along with the old paperback hacks, Ferdinand Bartholomew and Kitty Gaylord. Ferd had written a hundred novels for Dell, Belmont, Beeline, and several other houses, and Kitty had done “nursies” and other romances for Ace, Harlequin, and Popular Library.
    â€œWhat a shame,” Freddie said, after being served a stack of hotcakes, three eggs, bacon and sausage, and biscuits and gravy. The other two ordered more reasonable portions.
    â€œYou mean about Brody?” I asked.
    â€œYeah. Poor guy really had a problem.”
    â€œYou two ever resolve your, uh, business arrangement?” I said.
    â€œOh, sure,” he said, “I took care of that last night.”
    â€œI thought he didn’t have what you wanted.”
    â€œWell, he found it again,” Freddie said. “We met next door at the Drinkery, late.”
    â€œ How late?”
    He looked at me with his small reptilian eyes, and squinted: “I’ve already been through this with Pfisch, and I don’t really want to ruin my first meal of the day. It’s what gets me going, you know? So let it lay! We did a deal, I’ve got the book, he got the money, and that’s that, honey. You can ask Daryl M. next door, and he’ll tell you that Brody paid off his tab last night.”
    â€œIndeed?”
    â€œYes, he did seem quite happy when he left the bar,” Kitty said. She was a woman in her sixties, with gray hair and jowls.
    â€œI saw him too,” Bartholomew said. He and Kitty often palled around together. “He did pay his bill, just like Freddie said. That was before he left.”
    â€œDid he show the book