King of Murder

Table of Contents

 

 

“Why? Because they sit in front of their computers writing about murder instead of going out and doing it?”

Herculeah stopped. She thought for a minute and then said, “You've got a point, Meat.”

“I do? What?”

“Well, when I saw Mr. King with the golden noose, as he called it, he really seemed like a different person. And when he threw it over your head, well, I thought, wow, this is a writer who really knows his characters—this is a writer who gets inside his characters' minds.”

She took in a deep breath. He could tell she had something to add, and Herculeah's additions were usually important.

“Go on.”

“Either he really does get inside his characters' minds or—”

“Or what?”

“Or he's a murderer.”

 

 

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Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published in the United States of America by Viking,
a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2006
This Sleuth edition published by Puffin Books,
a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2007

Copyright © Betsy Byars, 2006

All rights reserved

THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE VIKING EDITION AS FOLLOWS:
Byars, Betsy Cromer.
King of Murder / by Betsy Byars.
p. cm.—(A Herculeah Jones mystery)
Summary: Herculeah meets a murder mystery writer, and has the uneasy feeling
that he knows more about murder than he should.

eISBN : 978-1-101-00702-0

[1. Murder—Fiction. 2. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Title.
PZ7.B9836Kin 2006 [Fic]—dc22 2005008422

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

“Don't go in there!”

Meat and Herculeah were in front of Hidden Treasures, the secondhand store where Herculeah liked to shop. Her hand was reaching for the doorknob, but at Meat's warning, she paused.

“Why not?”

Meat noticed that her fingers curled around the knob. She never listened to him, but this was important. He had to try.

“Because every time you get something in there, it leads to murder,” he said.

“It does not.”

“How about that coat you bought in there with the note from a dead woman in the pocket? The ‘I don't want to die; he's going to kill me' note.”

“May I remind you,” Herculeah said, “that I also bought the camera in here that let us find your father.”

“Well, yes.”

“I also got those granny glasses that make me think better. And my binocs! I would have missed a lot without my binoculars. I've gotten lots of good stuff here. I'm going in.”

“Fine. Go in. Just don't buy anything. That's when the trouble starts.”

“I can't buy anything. I don't have any money. You?”

“No.”

“Then nothing can happen to us. We're safe.”

“I don't know how and I don't know why and don't ask me to explain it, but I know we'll have found something that will lead to murder.”

Herculeah opened the door. “You coming?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you're going to hesitate and make me think you aren't going to come in, and then you're going to come in.”

He sighed. He wished just once he could surprise Herculeah and do the unexpected, but this was not the time. He hesitated and then followed her inside.

Later, when Meat looked back on his prediction, he realized he should have added two words. The prediction should have been, “I don't know how and I don't know why and don't ask me to explain it, but we'll have found something
or someone
that will lead to murder.”

Herculeah breezed into the shop. Behind her, Meat came in more slowly and closed the door behind him.

“Hi, Mrs. Jay, it's me.”

“Oh, Herculeah! Come in!”

“Neither of us has any money, Mrs. Jay; we just want to look around.”

Over the years, Herculeah and Mrs. Jay had become friends, and Mrs. Jay smiled warmly at Herculeah. “I'm glad it's you, because I've got someone I especially want you to meet.”

Herculeah walked to the back of the shop where Mrs. Jay stood with a tall man. He was dressed all in black, and his sharp eyes beneath the brim of his black hat were black, too.

As she got closer, she noticed that he wore a cape. Herculeah hadn't ever seen a man in a cape, outside of a Dracula movie.

“Herculeah, this is the man I told you about. He writes murder mysteries.” To the man she said, “Herculeah loves mysteries. She's even solved quite a few.”

“You're a writer?” Herculeah asked. Perhaps that explained the cape. Her face was bright with interest.

“Wonderful murder mysteries,” Mrs. Jay said. “People tell me his murders are so realistic, you almost feel like you're there, committing them yourself.”

“Mrs. Jay is too kind,” the man said. “Well, I know a good murder mystery when I hear about it. I don't read much. I don't have time.”

He took off his hat in an old-timey gesture. “Mathias King, at your service.”

“Mathias King!” Herculeah exclaimed. “Mrs. Jay, you did tell me about him. I remember now. And, and”—Herculeah's excitement grew—“you told me some of the fake murder weapons that inspired his books were bought right here in this very store. I even read
A Slash of Life
!”

“That's right,” Mrs. Jay said. “He's written—I don't know how many books—and all the murder weapons came from Hidden Treasures.”

“All of them?” Herculeah asked.

“Just my last two,” Mathias King admitted. “My other books were true-crime books—nonfiction. You might have heard of some of them—
The Case of the Murdered Monk
was perhaps my most famous.”

Herculeah still looked interested, but it was obvious that she hadn't heard of the unfortunate monk.

Mathias King continued quickly. “However, it was not until I began selecting my weapons here and creating my own murders that I became”—he shrugged as if he hated to say the word, but he had to because it was true—“famous.”

“The first weapon you bought from me,” Mrs. Jay said with a smile of remembrance, “was the letter opener.”

“Ah, that was featured in
A Slash of Life
,” Mathias King said. “But it was no ordinary letter opener. Oh, no, it was like a very lovely stiletto.” His long, thin fingers drew out the blade in the air, and then with a quick jab thrust it into a victim.

“And the second one was the cup.”

“Ah, yes, the cup, but I like to think of it as a goblet. The goblet was featured in A Sip of Death. But it was no ordinary vessel. It was from the old days. I even like to think that it had once belonged to the Marchese of Rome.”

“If it belonged to him, you owe me a bunch of money,” Mrs. Jay laughed.

“The bowl of the goblet was an apple.” His hand cupped the invisible fruit. “And twining up the stem was a snake.” Now the fingers became a snake, coiling around the stem of the goblet. “The snake's head contained just the tiniest little amount of poison. A touch on the handle of the goblet, and the snake's mouth opened, his forked tongue appeared, and on the tongue—
voilà
—a drop of venom.”