The Biscotti Requisition
Thomas Spammel stared at the document, its crumpled surface belying its decades- old composition. His mind exploded into a white fog.
Murderers! They killed Merdette, of that he was certain; it was no suicide. They probably were responsible also for the brutal slayings at the quaint pub near Loch Torriden.
For God's sake, why? Then it slowly dawned on Spammel, nee Richard Blinkenlichten, it dated back further than he had realized, this mysterious international cartel. So it was correct, he thought, the policeman in New York who constructed his sentences like an actor-turned writer, avoiding all conversational normalities of the English language, especially American colloquialisms.
Madness! Insanity! .... The frumpy redheaded woman who was supposedly dead! .
Across the road, from the corner of his eye, he saw a match flare again. It was a nondescript blonde man in a conservative business suit, a chameleon, a man nobody would remember. He seemed to be staring at Spammel. The nondescript blonde man in the pink tuxedo! Spammel's heart pounded: the man lighted another match, holding it briefly in his fingers before shaking it out.
He had told Henri of the Deuičme Bureau that he suspected an Inspector Dubois, but had forgotten to spell the man's name! No wonder no trace of the "inspector" had been found!
The man across the road started towards Spammel, his hand reaching into his pocket, suddenly a loud bang! Chunks of cement flying in the air in front of his feet!
My God, he's trying to kill me!! Madness! Insanity! Spammel was frozen to the spot, unable to move. Insanity! Surely the assassin was from the Taqueria!
Assassin! Madness!