Free The Shattered Raven by Edward D. Hoch Page A

said.
    “Yeah. I read your last book. That was a pretty sexy cover.”
    “I don’t do the cover art.”
    “No, of course not.” He sipped his coffee. “What do you think about this thing? Who do you think killed Craigthorn?”
    “I’m pretty sure it was not a member of MWA. This gimmick with the bullet being fired electrically from a pipe taped to a microphone—it’s too much like the sort of thing some clever murderer would imagine some equally clever author dreaming up. I think the whole gimmick was just a plot to kill Craigthorn and put the blame on our organisation.”
    “You think anyone would really want to do that? Why, Mr. Hamet?”
    “Not mainly to discredit the organisation—but just to throw attention away from the real killer. There were a lot of non-writers at the dinner Friday night. Even some friends of Craigthorn’s.”
    “Yeah. You probably mean the secretary, Miss … ah …” He flipped through his notebook, then came up with the name. “Yeah, Miss Sweeney. She’s sort of a looker. You think he was sleeping with her?”
    “I’m sure I’ve told you I didn’t know the man.”
    “Somebody at MWA must have known him to choose him for the award.”
    “I guess so,” Barney admitted. “Harry Fox, one of our associate members, gets around town, sees a lot of people. He probably suggested it to the board of directors.”
    “What about this friend that came with him—Frank Jesset? He’s some sort of an editor, isn’t he?”
    “True confessions magazine, from what I understand,” Barney said.
    George grunted and tried to smooth down his wild hair. “So you’ve got no ideas about the thing? You were pretty sharp finding that electrical device in the podium.”
    “I was standing right next to him when he was shot. It wasn’t too difficult to see where the bullet came from.”
    “What about this statuette, the Raven award? Why did he pull it out of your hand?”
    “He was obviously trying to tell me something—perhaps to name his murderer. I don’t know.”
    “There was no Raven at the dinner. There was no bird of any sort. We checked the girls— Robin , you know, is sort of a nickname. But there weren’t any, Mr. Hamet.”
    Barney lit a cigarette. “Have you considered the possibility that Craigthorn was not the intended victim? That this device misfired at the wrong moment?”
    “Well, who was the intended victim then?” the detective wanted to know. “The awards were kept pretty confidential, as I understand it, all except the one to Craigthorn. I doubt if any outsider would even have known that Harry Fox was going to give his little talk. They certainly wouldn’t have known that people like Max Winters were going to win. You were the only one definitely scheduled to speak, outside of Craigthorn. Are you telling us the bullet was meant for you?”
    Barney could not in all honesty tell him that “I don’t know who it was meant for. I suppose it was meant for Craigthorn. A killer as clever as this one wouldn’t have fired the thing at the wrong moment.”
    “I hear you’re having a little all-night radio session tonight on KJON.”
    Barney nodded. “Skinny Simon’s show. Listen in.”
    “I can’t stay up all night listening to the radio. The wife would think I was some sort of a nut. You tell me if anything exciting happens.”
    Barney nodded. “I’ll do that.”
    “And if you get any tips on the case, pass them along to me. We’re always happy to have some extra help.”
    “Right.”
    Barney left him in the coffee shop and headed back to his own apartment. Maybe he could catch a few hours sleep before the appearance on Skinny’s show. At least he could try.
    The studios of KJON were just south of Times Square, in one of those nondescript office buildings that was not tall enough or new enough or modern enough to attract more than a passing glance. Tourists sometimes mistook it for part of the garment district, though that was several blocks further to the