Book Excerpts

Bourne Identity

2007-12-02T01:34:00.000-08:00

“You appear to be a mass of contradictions,” Dr. Washburn said. “There’s a subsurface violence almost always in control, but very much alive. There’s also a pensiveness that seems painful for you, yet you rarely give vent to the anger that pain must provoke.”
“You’re provoking it now,” said the man.
“And we’ll continue to do so, as long as there’s progress.”
“I wasn’t aware any progress had been made.”
“Not in terms of an identity or an occupation. But we are finding out what’s most comfortable for you, what you deal with best. It’s a little frightening.”
“In what way?”
“Let me give you an example.” The doctor put the clipboard down and got out of the chair. He walked to a primitive cupboard against the wall, opened a drawer, and took out a large automatic handgun. The man with no memory tensed in his chair; Washburn was aware of the reaction. “I’ve never used this, not sure I’d know how to, but I do live on the waterfront.” He smiled, then suddenly, without warning, threw it to the man. The weapon was caught in midair, the catch clean,
swift, and confident. Break it down; I believe that’s the phrase.”
“What?”
“Break it down. Now.”
The man looked at the gun. And then, in silence, his hands and fingers moved expertly over the
weapon. In less than thirty seconds it was completely dismantled.

Physik

2007-10-25T14:37:00.000-07:00

Snorri Snorrelssen guided her trading barge up the quiet waters of the river toward the Castle. It was a misty autumn afternoon and Snorri was relieved to have left the turbulent tidal waters of the Port behind her. The wind had dropped but enough breeze caught the huge sail of the barge–named Alfrun, after her mother who owned it–to enable her to steer the boat safely around Raven's Rock and head for the quay just
beyond Sally Mullin's Tea and Ale House.

Two young fishermen, not much older than Snorri herself, had just returned from a day's successful herring catch and were more than happy to catch the heavy hemp ropes that Snorri threw to shore. Eager to show their skills, they tied the ropes around two large posts on the quay and made the Alfrun secure. The fishermen were also more than happy to dispense all kinds of advice on how to take the sail down and the best way to stow the ropes, which Snorri ignored, partly because she hardly understood what they were saying but mainly because no one told Snorri Snorrelssen what to do–no one, not even her mother. Especially not her mother.

Snorri, tall for her age, was slim, wiry and surprisingly strong. With the practiced ease of someone who had spent the last two weeks at sea sailing alone, Snorri lowered the great canvas sail and rolled up the vast folds of heavy cloth; then she heaved the ropes into neat coils and secured the tiller. Aware that she was being watched by the fishermen, Snorri locked the hatch to the hold below, which was full of heavy bales of thick woolen cloth, sacks of pickling spice, great barrels of salted fish and some particularly fine reindeerskin boots. At last–ignoring more offers of
help–Snorri pushed the gangplank out and came ashore, leaving Ullr, her small orange cat with a black-tipped tail, to prowl the deck and keep the rats at bay.

Snorri had been at sea for more than two weeks and she had been looking forward to stepping onto firm land again, but as she walked along the quay it felt to her as if she were still on board the Alfrun, for the quay seemed to move beneath her feet just as the old barge had done. The fishermen, who should already have gone home to their respective mothers, were sitting on a pile of empty lobster pots. "Evening, miss," one of them called out.

Snorri ignored him. She made her way to the end of the quay and took the well-trodden path that led to a large new pontoon, on which a thriving cafe was built. It was a very stylish two-story wooden building with long, low windows that looked out across the river. The cafe looked inviting in the chill early-evening air, with a warm yellow light coming from the oil lamps that hung from the ceiling. As Snorri walked across the wooden walkway that led onto the pontoon she could hardly believe that, at long last, she was here–at the fabled Sally Mullin's Tea and Ale House. Excited,
but feeling very nervous, Snorri pushed open the double doors to the cafe and nearly fell over a long line of fire buckets full of sand and water.

Flyte

2007-10-25T14:35:00.000-07:00

Septimus Heap tipped six spiders into a jar, screwed the lid down tight and put them outside the door. Then he picked up his broom and continued sweeping out the Pyramid Library. The Library was cramped and dark. It was lit by a few fat candles that spat and spluttered, and it smelled weird–a mixture of incense, musty paper and moldy leather. Septimus loved it. It was a Magykal place, perched right at the top of the
Wizard Tower and hidden away deep inside the golden Pyramid, which crowned the Tower. Outside, the hammered gold of the Pyramid shimmered brightly in the early-morning sun.

After Septimus had finished sweeping, he made his way slowly along the shelves, humming happily to himself while he sorted out the Magykal books, parchments and spells that the ExtraOrdinary Wizard, Marcia Overstrand, had, as usual, left in a mess. Most eleven-and-a-half-year-old boys would rather have been out in the bright summer morning, but Septimus was where he wanted to be. He had spent quite enough summer mornings outside–and winter ones, come to that–in the first ten years of
his life as Young Army soldier, Boy 412.

It was Septimus's job, as Apprentice to the ExtraOrdinary Wizard, to tidy the Library every morning. And every morning Septimus found something new and exciting. Often it was something that Marcia had left out especially for him: maybe a Conjuration that she had come across late at night and thought might interest him or a dog-eared old spell book that she had taken from one of the Hidden shelves. But today, Septimus
reckoned he had found something for himself: it was stuck underneath a heavy brass candlestick and looked slightly disgusting–not the kind of thing that Marcia Overstrand would want to get her hands messy with. Very carefully he pried the sticky brown square off the bottom of the candlestick and put it in the palm of his hand. Septimus examined his find and felt excited–he was sure it was a Taste Charm. The thick, brown, square tablet looked like an old piece of chocolate; it smelled like an old piece of chocolate; and he was pretty sure it would taste like an old piece
of chocolate too, although he wasn't going to risk it. There was a chance it
might be a poison Charm that had dropped out of the large box labeled: TOXINS, VENOMS AND BASYK BANES, which teetered unsteadily on the shelf above.

Magyk

2007-10-25T14:32:00.000-07:00

Silas Heap pulled his cloak tightly around him against the snow. It had been a long walk through the Forest, and he was chilled to the bone. But in his pockets he had the herbs that Galen, the Physik Woman, had given him for his new baby boy, Septimus, who had been born earlier that day.

Silas drew closer to the Castle, and he could see the lights flickering through the trees as candles were placed in the windows of the tall narrow houses clustered along the outside walls. It was the longest night of the year, and the candles would be kept burning until dawn, to help keep the dark at bay. Silas always loved this walk to the Castle. He had no fear of the Forest by day and enjoyed the peaceful walk along the narrow track that threaded its way through the dense trees for mile after
mile. He was near the edge of the Forest now, the tall trees had begun to thin out, and as the track began to dip down to the valley floor, Silas could see the whole Castle spread before him. The old walls hugged the wide, winding river and zigzagged around the higgledy-piggledy clumps of houses. All the houses were painted bright colors, and those that faced west looked as if they were on fire as their windows caught the last of the winter sun's rays.

The Castle had started life as a small village. Being so near to the Forest the villagers had put up some tall stone walls for protection against the wolverines, witches and warlocks who thought nothing of stealing their sheep, chickens and occasionally their children. As more houses were built, the walls were extended and a deep moat was dug so that all could feel safe.

Soon the Castle was attracting skilled craftsmen from other villages. It grew and prospered, so much so that the inhabitants began to run out of space until someone decided to build The Ramblings. The Ramblings, which was where Silas, Sarah and the boys lived, was a huge stone building that rose up along the riverside. It sprawled for three miles along the river and back again into the Castle and was a noisy, busy
place filled with a warren of passages and rooms, with small factories, schools and shops mixed in with family rooms, tiny roof gardens and even a theater. There was not much space in The Ramblings, but people did not mind. There was always good company and someone for the children to play with.

Ptolemy's Gate

2007-10-24T16:29:00.000-07:00

The demon saw Kitty the moment she moved. A wide mouth opened in the stubby, featureless head; double rows of teeth descended from above and rose from the lining of the jaw. It snipped its teeth together curiously, making a noise like a thousand scissors, slicing in unison. Folds of gray-green flesh shifted on either side of the skull, revealing two golden eyes that glinted as they turned on her.

Kitty did not repeat her mistake. She stood stock-still, barely six feet from the bent and snuffling head, and held her breath. The demon scraped a foot experimentally against the floor, scoring five thick claw gashes in the tiles. It made a curious crooning noise deep in its throat. It was sizing her up, she knew it was, appraising her strength, debating whether to attack. In the final moments of crisis her brain took in many irrelevant details of its guise: the flecks of gray hair about the joints, the bright metal scales upon the torso, the hands with too many fingers and too few bones. Her own limbs shook; her hands twitched as if to encourage her to run, but she fought against her fear and beat it down.

Then a voice came: sweet and female, curiously inquiring. "Aren't you going to run, my dear? I can only lope along on these club feet. Ah me, so slow! Try it. You never know–you might escape." So gentle was the voice it took Kitty a moment to realize it came from the dreadful mouth. It was the demon that spoke. Numbly she shook her head.

The demon flexed six fingers in an incomprehensible gesture. "Then at least step toward me," the sweet voice said. "It would save me the torture of hobbling over to you on these poor club feet of mine. Ah me, so sore! My essence flinches from the pull of your harsh, cruel earth."

Again Kitty shook her head, slower this time. The demon sighed, bowing its head as if crushed and disappointed. "My dear, you have no courtesy. I wonder whether your essence would disagree with me if I ate you. I am a martyr to indigestion. . . ." The head rose; the eyes sparkled, the teeth snipped like a thousand scissors. "I will risk it." Without pause the leg joints bent and sprang, the jaws opened, wide, wide, wide; the fingers clasped. Kitty fell back, screamed.

A wall of silver shards, thin as rapiers, rose from the floor, spearing the demon as it leaped; a flash, a shower of sparks–its body burst into lilac flames. It hovered in midair for a split second, twitched, emitted a single gout of smoke, then drifted softly to the floor, light as burning paper. A little voice whispered, sad, resentful: "Ah me . . ." Now it was nothing but a husk, which fell in upon itself and presently dwindled into ashes.

Golem's Eye

2007-10-24T16:28:00.000-07:00

At dusk, the enemy lit their campfires one by one, in greater profusion than on
any night before. The lights sparkled like fiery jewels out in the grayness of the
plains, so numerous it seemed an enchanted city had sprung up from the earth.
By contrast, within our walls the houses had their shutters closed, their lights
blacked out. A strange reversal had taken place–Prague itself was dark and dead,
while the countryside around it flared with life.
Soon afterward, the wind began to drop. It had been blowing strongly from the
west for hours, carrying word of the invaders' movements–the rattling of the
siege engines, the calling of the troops and animals, the sighing of the captive
spirits, the odors of the incantations. Now, with unnatural speed, it died away and
the air was steeped in silence.

I was floating high above the Strahov Monastery, just inside the magnificent city
walls I'd built three hundred years before. My leathery wings moved in strong,
slow beats; my eyes scanned the seven planes to the horizon.It did not make for happy viewing. The mass of the British army was cloaked behind Concealments, but its ripples of power already lapped at the base of Castle Hill.
The auras of a vast contingent of spirits were dimly visible in the gloom; with
every minute further brief trembles on the planes signaled the arrival of new
battalions. Groups of human soldiers moved purposefully over the dark ground. In
their midst stood a cluster of great white tents, domed like rocs' eggs, about
which Shields and other spells hung cobweb-thick.

The Seven Planes: The seven accessible planes are superimposed upon each
other, and each reveals certain aspects of reality. The first includes ordinary
material things (trees, buildings, humans, animals, etc.), which are visible to all;
the other six contain spirits of various kinds going quietly about their business.
Higher beings (such as me) can use inner eyes to observe all seven planes at
once, but more lowly creatures have to make do with seeing fewer. Humans are
remarkably lowly. Magicians use contact lenses to see planes two to three, but
most people only see the first plane, and this makes them ignorant about all
kinds of magical activity. For example, there's probably something invisible with
lots of tentacles hovering behind your back right NOW.

The Amulet of Samarkand

2007-10-24T16:25:00.000-07:00

The temperature of the room dropped fast. Ice formed on the curtains and crusted thickly around the lights in the ceiling. The glowing filaments in each bulb shrank and dimmed, while the candles that sprang from every available surface like a colony of toadstools had their wicks snuffed out. The darkened room filled with a yellow, choking cloud of brimstone, in which indistinct black shadows writhed and roiled. From far away came the sound of many voices screaming. Pressure was suddenly applied to the door that led to the landing. It bulged inward, the timbers groaning. Footsteps from invisible feet came pattering across the floorboards and invisible mouths whispered wicked things from behind the bed and under the desk.

The sulfur cloud contracted into a thick column of smoke that vomited forth thin tendrils; they licked the air like tongues before withdrawing. The column hung above the middle of the pentacle, bubbling ever upward against the ceiling like the cloud of an erupting volcano. There was a barely perceptible pause. Then two yellow staring eyes materialized in the heart of the smoke.

Hey, it was his first time. I wanted to scare him.

And I did, too. The dark-haired boy stood in a pentacle of his own, smaller, filled with different runes, three feet away from the main one. He was pale as a corpse, shaking like a dead leaf in a high wind. His teeth rattled in his shivering jaw. Beads of sweat dripped from his brow, turning to ice as they fell through the air. They tinkled with the sound of hailstones on the floor.

All well and good, but so what? I mean, he looked about twelve years old. Wide-eyed, hollow-cheeked. There's not that much satisfaction to be had from scaring the pants off a scrawny kid.

The Lost Colony

2007-10-24T16:07:00.000-07:00

HOLLY Short's career as an elfin private investigator was not working out as well as she'd hoped. This was mainly because the Lower Elements' most popular current events show had run not one, but two specials on her over the past few months. It was difficult to go undercover when her face was forever popping up on cable reruns.
'Surgery?' suggested a voice in her head. This voice was not the first sign of madness; it was her partner, Mulch Diggums, communicating from his mike to her earpiece.
'What?' she said, her voice carrying to her own microphone, a tiny flesh-coloured chip glued to her throat.
I m looking at a poster of your famous face, and I'm thinking that you should have some cosmetic surgery if we want to stay in business. And I mean real business, not this bounty-hunting game. Bounty hunters are the lowest of the low.'
Holly sighed. Her dwarf partner was right. Even criminals were considered more trustworthy than bounty hunters.
'A few implants and a reshaped nose and even your best friend wouldn't recognize you,' continued Mulch Diggums. 'It's not as if you're a beauty queen.'
'Forget it,' said Holly. She was fond of the face she had. It reminded her of her mother's.
'What about a skin spray? You could go green, disguise yourself as a sprite.'
'Mulch? Are you in position?' snapped Holly.
'Yep,' came the dwarf's reply. 'Any sign of the pixie?'
'No, he's not up and about yet, but he will be soon. So stop the chatter and just get ready.'
'Hey, we're partners now. No more criminal and police officer. I don't have to take orders from you.'
'Get ready, please.'
'No problem. Mulch Diggums, lowlife bounty hunter, signing off.'
Holly sighed. Sometimes she missed the discipline of the Lower Elements Police Reconnaissance Division. When an order was given, it was followed. Although if she was honest, Holly had to admit she had got herself into trouble more than once for disobeying a direct command.

The Eternity Code

2007-10-24T16:03:00.001-07:00

THOUGH Artemis did not intend it, the Cube's scan for surveillance beams was to have
far-reaching repercussions. The search parameters were so vague that the Cube sent probes into deep space and, of course, deep underground.

Below the surface, the Lower Elements Police were stretched to their limits following the recent goblin revolution. Three months after the attempted goblin takeover, most of the major players were in custody. But there were still isolated pockets of the B'wa Kell triad loping around Haven's tunnels with illegal Softnose lasers.

Every available LEP officer had been drafted in to help with Operation Mop-Up before the tourist season got started. The last thing the city Council wanted was tourists spending their leisure gold in Atlantis because Haven's pedestrianized central plaza was not safe to wander through. Tourism, after all, accounted for eighteen per cent of the capital's revenue.

Captain Holly Short was on loan from the Reconnaissance squad. Generally, her job was to fly to the surface on the trail of fairies who had ventured above ground without a visa. If even one renegade fairy got himself captured by the Mud People, then Haven ceased to be a haven. So until every gang goblin was licking his eyeballs in Howler's Peak correctional facility, Holly's duties were the same as every other LEP officer: rapid response to any B'wa Kell alert.

Today she was escorting four rowdy goblin hoods to Police Plaza for processing. They had been found asleep in an insect delicatessen, stomachs distended after a night of gluttony. It was lucky for them that Holly had arrived when she did, because the deli's dwarf owner was on the point of lowering the scaly foursome into the deep-fat fryer.

Holly's ride-along for Operation Mop-Up was Corporal Grub Kelp, little brother to the famous Captain Trouble Kelp, one of the LEP's most decorated officers. Grub, however, did not share his brother's stoic personality.
'I got a hangnail cuffing that last goblin,' said the junior officer, chewing on his thumb.
'Painful,' said Holly, trying to sound interested.

They were driving along a magnastrip to Police Plaza, with the perpetrators manacled in the rear of their LEP wagon. It wasn't actually a regulation wagon. The B'wa Kell had managed to burn out so many police vehicles during their short-lived revolution that the LEP had been forced to commandeer anything with an engine and room in the back for a few prisoners. In reality, Holly was piloting a curry van with the LEP acorn symbol spray-painted on the side. The motor-pool gnomes had simply bolted the serving hatch and removed the ovens. A pity they couldn't remove the smell.

The Opal Deception

2007-10-24T15:52:00.000-07:00

Thieves have their own folklore: stories of ingenious heists and death-defying robberies. One such legend tells of the Egyptian cat burglar Faisil Mahmood, who scaled the dome of St. Peter's basilica in order to drop in on a visiting, bishop and steal his crosier.

Another story concerns confidence woman Red Mary Keneally, who dressed as a duchess and talked her way into the King of England's coronation. The palace denied the event ever took place, but every now and then a crown turns up at auction
that looks a lot like the one in the Tower of London.

Perhaps the most thrilling legend is the tale of the lost Herve masterpiece. Every primary schoolchild knows that Pascal Herve was the French Impressionist who painted extraordinarily beautiful pictures of the fairy folk. And every art dealer knows that Herve's paintings are second in value only to those of van Gogh himself, commanding price tags of more than fifty million euros.

There are fifteen paintings in the Herve Fairy Folk series. Ten reside in French museums and five are in private collections. But there are rumors of a sixteenth. Whispers circulate in the upper criminal echelons that another Herve exists:

The Fairy Thief, depicting a fairy in the act of stealing a human child. Legend has it that Herve gave the picture as a gift to a beautiful Turkish girl he met on the ChampsElysee. The girl promptly broke Herve's heart, and sold the picture to a British tourist for twenty francs. Within weeks, the picture had been stolen from the Englishman's home. And since that time, it has been lifted from private collections all over the world. Since Herve painted his masterpiece, it is believed that The Fairy Thief has been stolen fifteen times. But what makes these thefts different
from the billion others that have been committed during this time is that the first thief decided to keep the picture for himself. And so did all the others.

The Fairy Thief has become something of a trophy for top thieves worldwide. Only a dozen know of its existence, and only a handful know of its whereabouts. The painting is to criminals what the Turner Prize is to artists.

The Arctic Incident

2007-10-24T15:48:00.000-07:00

THE traditional image of a leprechaun is one of a small, green-suited imp. Of course, this is the human image. Fairies have their own stereotypes. The People generally imagine officers of the Lower Elements Police Reconnaissance squad to be truculent gnomes or bulked-up elves, recruited straight from their college crunchball squads.

Captain Holly Short fits neither of these descriptions. In fact, she would probably be the last person you would pick as a member of the LEPrecon squad. If you had to guess her occupation, the catlike stance and the sinewy muscles might suggest a gymnast or perhaps a professional potholer. But take a closer look, past the pretty face, into the eyes, and you will see determination so fiery it could light a candle at ten paces, and a streetwise intelligence that made her one of Recon's most respected officers.

Of course, technically, Holly was no longer attached to Recon. Ever since the Artemis Fowl Affair, when she had been captured and held to ransom, her position as Recon's first female officer had been under review. The only reason she wasn't at home watering her ferns right now was that Commander Root had threatened to turn in his own badge if Holly was suspended. Root knew, even if Internal Affairs wasn't convinced, that the kidnapping had not been Holly's fault, and only her quick thinking had prevented loss of life.

But the Council members weren't particularly interested in loss of human life. They were more concerned with loss of fairy gold. And according to them, Holly had cost them a fair chunk from the Recon ransom fund. Holly was quite prepared to fly above ground and wring Artemis Fowl's neck until he returned the gold, but that wasn't the way it worked: the Book, the fairy bible, stated that once a human managed to separate a fairy from his gold, then that gold was his to keep.

So, instead of confiscating her badge, Internal Affairs had insisted Holly handle grunt work – somewhere that she couldn't do any harm. Stakeout was the obvious choice. Holly was farmed out to Customs and Excise, stuck in a Cham pod and suckered to the rock face overlooking a pressure-elevator chute. Dead-end duty.

Artemis Fowl

2007-10-24T15:38:00.000-07:00

HOLLY Short was lying in bed having a silent fume. Nothing unusual about this. Leprechauns in general were not known for their geniality. But Holly was in an exceptionally bad mood, even for a fairy. Technically she was an elf, fairy being a general term. She was a leprechaun too, but that was just a job.

Perhaps a description would be more helpful than a lecture on fairy genealogy. Holly Short had nut-brown skin, cropped auburn hair and hazel eyes. Her nose had a hook and her mouth was plump and cherubic, which was appropriate considering that Cupid was her great-grandfather. Her mother was a European elf with a fiery temper and a willowy figure. Holly, too, had a slim frame, with long tapered fingers perfect for wrapping around a buzz baton. Her ears, of course, were pointed. At
exactly one metre in height, Holly was only a centimetre below the fairy average, but
even one centimetre can make an awful lot of difference when you don't have many to spare.

Commander Root was the cause of Holly's distress. Root had been on Holly's case since day one. The commander had decided to take offence at the fact that the first female officer in Recon's history had been assigned to his squad. Recon was a notoriously dangerous posting with a high fatality rate, and Root didn't think it was any place for a girlie. Well, he was just going to have to get used to the idea, because Holly Short had no intention of quitting for him or anybody else.

Though she'd never admit it, another possible cause for Holly's irritability was the Ritual. She'd been meaning to perform it for several moons now, but somehow there just never seemed to be time. And if Root found out she was running low on magic, she'd be transferred to Traffic for sure.

The Tao of Poker

2007-10-24T14:42:00.000-07:00

One measure of poker writing (as perhaps with all forms of writing), is the «Ah ha!» factor – a sentence or thought that provokes a feeling of common experience with the reader. Our hope is for something of that here, in these pages.

Poker is a somewhat difficult subject to write about. As you learn certain truths and write them down, these truths can change for you later. What seemed quite profound to you at one time might seem a year later to be «obvious» – and no longer worthy of being mentioned. What has happened is that you have moved beyond this particular truth to a newer truth. In such a fashion, the player keeps moving beyond his own
knowledge, out-dating it.

At the same time, to someone new to the game, these are still new truths, capable of changing one’s thinking and approach, so in that sense, one is wrong not to include them. The bottom line is of a constantly changing and evolving experience. Aside from the very newest beginners, and the most experienced players, almost everyone in the game is at a different level of knowledge.

The use of the phrase the «Tao of poker» refers to the Taoist belief system that originated in China somewhere around the sixth to fourth century в.с. (with the writings of the Taoist sages Lao Tzu and Chuang Tzu).It postulates an underlying harmony of events – a harmonious balance that seeks to do things in ways that encounter the least resistance. Strictly speaking, the word «Tao» means «the Way». The «Way» in this case simply means the attempt to get closer to the actual truth of the game – the underlying game, when it is perceived correctly.

This book is designed for average players in low- or medium-limit games – a series of ideas aimed at shedding light on the nature of the game and moving these players in the direction of this «Way» – the underlying truth of the game. It is my hope that some things contained in these pages will also be of interest to higher limit players.

Get the book here

Dracula

2007-10-24T14:35:00.000-07:00

3 May. Bistritz.-- Left Munich at 8:35 P.M., on 1st May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late. Buda-Pesth seems a wonderful place, from the glimpse which I got of it from the train and the little I could walk through the streets. I feared to go very far from the station, as we had arrived late and would start as near the correct time as possible.

The impression I had was that we were leaving the West and entering the East; the most western of splendid bridges over the Danube, which is here of noble width and depth, took us among the traditions of Turkish rule.

We left in pretty good time, and came after nightfall to Klausenburgh. Here I stopped for the night at the Hotel Royale. I had for dinner, or rather supper, a chicken done up some way with red pepper, which was very good but thirsty. (Mem. get recipe for Mina.) I asked the waiter, and he said it was called "paprika hendl," and that, as it was a national dish, I should be able to get it anywhere along the Carpathians.
I found my smattering of German very useful here, indeed, I don't know how I should be able to get on without it.

Having had some time at my disposal when in London, I had visited the British Museum,
and made search among the books and maps in the library regarding Transylvania; it
had struck me that some foreknowledge of the country could hardly fail to have some
importance in dealing with a nobleman of that country.

I find that the district he named is in the extreme east of the country, just on the borders of three states, Transylvania, Moldavia, and Bukovina, in the midst of the Carpathian mountains; one of the wildest and least known portions of Europe.
I was not able to light on any map or work giving the exact locality of the Castle Dracula, as there are no maps of this country as yet to compare with our own Ordance Survey Maps; but I found that Bistritz, the post town named by Count Dracula, is a fairly well- known place. I shall enter here some of my notes, as they may refresh my memory when I talk over my travels with Mina.

In the population of Transylvania there are four distinct nationalities: Saxons in the South, and mixed with them the Wallachs, who are the descendants of the Dacians;
Magyars in the West, and Szekelys in the East and North. I am going among the latter,
who claim to be descended from Attila and the Huns. This may be so, for when the
Magyars conquered the country in the eleventh century they found the Huns settled in it.

I read that every known superstition in the world is gathered into the horseshoe of the Carpathians, as if it were the centre of some sort of imaginative whirlpool; if so my stay may be very interesting. (Mem., I must ask the Count all about them.)

Fountainhead

2007-10-22T15:53:00.000-07:00

In September, he read an article entitled "Make Way For Tomorrow" by Gordon L. Prescott, A.G.A. in the Architectural Tribune. The article stated that the tragedy of the profession was the hardships placed in the way of its talented beginners; that great gifts had been lost in the struggle, unnoticed; that architecture was perishing from a lack of new blood and new thought, a lack of originality, vision and courage; that the author of the article made it his aim to search for promising beginners, to encourage them, develop them and give them the chance they deserved. Roark had never heard of Gordon L. Prescott, but there was a tone of honest conviction in the article. He allowed himself to start for Prescott's office with the first hint of hope.

The reception room of Gordon L. Prescott's office was done in gray, black and scarlet; it was correct, restrained and daring all at once. A young and very pretty secretary informed Roark that one could not see Mr. Prescott without an appointment, but that she would be very glad to make an appointment for next Wednesday at two-fifteen. On Wednesday at two-fifteen, the secretary smiled at Roark and asked him please to be seated for just a moment. At four forty-five he was admitted into Gordon L. Prescott's office. Gordon L. Prescott wore a brown checkered tweed jacket and a white turtle-neck sweater of angora wool. He was tall, athletic and thirty-five, but his face combined a crisp air of sophisticated wisdom with the soft skin, the button nose, the small, puffed mouth of a college hero. His face was sun-scorched, his blond hair clipped short, in a military Prussian haircut. He was frankly masculine, frankly unconcerned about elegance and frankly conscious of the effect.

He listened to Roark silently, and his eyes were like a stop watch registering each separate second consumed by each separate word of Roark's. He let the first sentence go by; on the second he interrupted to say curtly: "Let me see your drawings," as if to make it clear that anything Roark might say was quite well known to him already.

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Eldest

2007-10-22T15:44:00.000-07:00

Eragon roused himself and rolled to the edge of the bed, looking about
the room, which was suffused with the dim glow of a shuttered lantern.
He sat and watched Saphira sleep. Her muscled sides expanded and contracted
as the great bellows of her lungs forced air through her scaled
nostrils. Eragon thought of the raging inferno that she could now summon
at will and send roaring out of her maw. It was an awesome sight
when flames hot enough to melt metal rushed past her tongue and ivory
teeth without harming them. Since she first breathed fire during his fight
with Durza-while plunging toward them from the top of Tronjheim-
Saphira had been insufferably proud of her new talent. She was constantly
releasing little jets of flame, and she took every opportunity to
light objects ablaze.

Because Isidar Mithrim was shattered, Eragon and Saphira had been unable
to remain in the dragonhold above it. The dwarves had given them
quarters in an old guardroom on Tronjheim's bottom level. It was a large
room, but with a low ceiling and dark walls.

Anguish gripped Eragon as he remembered the events of the previous
day. Tears filled his eyes, spilling over, and he caught one on his hand.
They had heard nothing from Arya until late that evening, when she
emerged from the tunnel, weary and footsore. Despite her best efforts-
and all her magic-the Urgals had escaped her. "I found these," she said.
Then she revealed one of the Twins' purple robes, torn and bloodied, and
Murtagh's tunic and both his leather gauntlets. "They were strewn along
the edge of a black chasm, the bottom of which no tunnel reaches. The
Urgals must have stolen their armor and weapons and thrown the bodies
into the pit. I scryed both Murtagh and the Twins, and saw naught but
the shadows of the abyss." Her eyes met Eragon's. "I'm sorry; they are
gone."

Now, in the confines of his mind, Eragon mourned Murtagh. It was a
dreadful, creeping feeling of loss and horror made worse by the fact that
he had grown ever more familiar with it in past months.

As he stared at the tear in his hand-a small, glistening dome-he decided
to scry the three men himself. He knew it was a desperate and futile
prospect, but he had to try in order to convince himself that Murtagh
was really gone. Even so, he was uncertain if he wanted to succeed where
Arya had failed, if it would make him feel any better to catch a glimpse
of Murtagh lying broken at the base of a cliff deep below Farthen Dûr.

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Murder On The Orient Express

2007-10-20T12:47:00.000-07:00

Hercule Poirot addressed himself to the task of keeping his moustaches out of the soup.

That difficult task accomplished, he glanced round him whilst waiting for the next course. There were only about half a dozen people in the restaurant, and of those half dozen there were only two that interested Hercule Poirot.

These two sat at a table not far away. The younger was a likeable-looking young man of thirty, clearly an American. It was, however, not he but his companion who had attracted the little detective's attention.

He was a man perhaps of between sixty and seventy. From a little distance he had the bland aspect of a philanthropist. His slightly bald head, his domed forehead, the smiling mouth that displayed a very white set of false teeth-all seemed to speak of a benevolent personality. Only the eyes belied this assumption. They were small, deep-set and crafty. Not only that. As the man, making some remark to his young companion, glanced across the room, his gaze stopped on Poirot for a moment and just for that second there was a strange malevolence, an unnatural tensity in the glance.

Then he rose.

"Pay the bill, Hector," he said.

His voice was slightly husky in tone. It had a queer, soft, dangerous quality.

When Poirot rejoined his friend in the lounge, the other two men were just leaving the hotel. Their luggage was being brought down. The younger was supervising the process. Presently he opened the glass door and said:

"Quite ready now, Mr. Ratchett."

The elder man grunted an assent and passed out.

" Eh bien," said Poirot. "What do you think of those two?"

"They are Americans," said M. Bouc.

"Assuredly they are Americans. I meant what did you think of their personalities?"

"The young man seemed quite agreeable."

"And the other?"

"To tell you the truth, my friend, I did not care for him. He produced on me an unpleasant impression. And you?"

Hercule Poirot was a moment in replying.

"When he passed me in the restaurant," he said at last, "I had a curious impression. It was as though a wild animal-an animal savage, but savage! you understand-had passed me by."

"And yet he looked altogether of the most respectable."

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Murder on the Links

2007-10-20T12:35:00.000-07:00

AT THE VILLA GENEVIEVE
IN a moment Poirot had leapt from the car, his eyes blazing with excitement.
'What is that you say? Murdered? When? How?'
The sergent de ville drew himself up. 'I cannot answer any questions, monsieur.'
'True. I comprehend.' Poirot reflected for a minute. 'The Commissary of Police, he is without doubt within?'
'Yes, monsieur.'
Poirot took out a card, and scribbled a few words on it.
'Voila! Will you have the goodness to see that this card is sent in to the commissary at once?'
The man took it and, turning his head over his shoulder, whistled. In a few seconds a comrade joined him, and was handed Poirot's message. There was a wait of some minutes, and then a short, stout man with a huge moustache came bustling down to the gate. The sergent de ville saluted and stood aside.
'My dear Monsieur Poirot,' cried the newcomer, 'I am delighted to see you. Your arrival is most opportune.'
Poirot's face had lighted up.
'Monsieur Bex! This is indeed a pleasure.' He turned to me. 'This is an English friend of mine, Captain Hastings. Monsieur Lucien Bex.'
The commissary and I bowed to each other ceremoniously, then M. Bex turned once more to Poirot.
'Mon vieux, I have not seen you since 1919, that time in Ostend. You have information to give which may assist us?'
'Possibly you know it already. You were aware that I had been sent for?'
'No. By whom?'
'The dead man. It seems that he knew an attempt was going to be made on his life. Unfortunately he sent for me too late.'
'Sacre tonnerre!' ejaculated the Frenchman. 'So he foresaw his own murder. That upsets our theories considerably! But come inside.'
He held the gate open, and we commenced walking towards the house. M. Bex continued to talk: 'The examining magistrate, Monsieur Hautet, must hear of this at once. He has just finished examining the scene of the crime and is about to begin his interrogations.'
'When was the crime committed?' asked Poirot.
'The body was discovered this morning about nine o'clock. Madame Renauld's evidence and that of the doctors goes to show that death must have occurred about 2 A.M.. But enter, I pray of you.'
We had arrived at the steps which led up to the front door of the villa. In the hall another sergent de ville was sitting. He rose at sight of the commissary.
'Where is Monsieur Hautet now?' inquired the latter.
'In the [garbled], monsieur.'
Bex opened a door to the left of the hall, and we passed in. M. Hautet and his clerk were sitting at a big round table.
They looked up as we entered. The commissary introduced us, and explained our presence.
M. Hautet, the Juge d'Instruction, was a tall gaunt man, with piercing dark eyes, and a neatly cut grey beard, which he had a habit of caressing as he talked. Standing by the mantelpiece was an elderly man, with slightly stooping shoulders, who was introduced to us as Dr. Durand.
'Most extraordinary,' remarked M. Hautet as the commissary finished speaking. 'You have the letter here, monsieur?'
Poirot handed it to him, and the magistrate read it.
'Hm! He speaks of a secret. What a pity he was not more explicit. We are much indebted to you, Monsieur Poirot. I hope you will do us the honour of assisting us in our investigations. Or are you obliged to return to London?'
'Monsieur le juge, I propose to remain. I did not arrive in time to prevent my client's death, but I feel myself bound in honour to discover the assassin.'
The magistrate bowed.
'These sentiments do you honour. Also, without doubt, Madame Renauld will wish to retain your services. We are expecting M. Giraud from the Sureté in Paris any moment, and I am sure that you and he will be able to give each other mutual assistance in your investigations. In the meantime, I hope that you will do me the honour to be present at my interrogations, and I need hardly say that if there is any assistance you require it is at your disposal.'
'I thank you, monsieur. You will comprehend that at present I am completely in the dark. I know nothing whatever.'
M. Hautet nodded to the commissary, and the latter took up the tale:
'This morning, the old servant Françoise, on descending to start her work, found the front door ajar. Feeling a momentary alarm as to burglars, she looked into the dining room, but seeing the silver was safe she thought no more about it, concluding that her master had, without doubt, risen early, and gone for a stroll.'
'Pardon, monsieur, for interrupting, but was that a common practice of his?'
'No, it was not, but old Françoise has the common idea as regards the English-that they are mad, and liable to do the most unaccountable things at any moment! Going to call her mistress as usual, a young maid, Léonie, was horrified to discover her gagged and bound, and almost at the same moment news was brought that Monsieur Renauld's body had been discovered, stone-dead, stabbed in the back.'
'Where?'
'That is one of the most extraordinary features of the case. Monsieur Poirot, the body was lying face downwards, in an [unclear].'
'What?'
'Yes. The pit was freshly dug-just a few yards outside the boundary of the villa.'
'And it had been dead how long?'
Dr. Durand answered him.
'I examined the body this morning at ten o'clock. Death must have taken place at least seven and possibly ten hours previously.'
'Hm! That fixes it at between midnight and 3 A.M..'
'Exactly, and Mrs. Renauld's evidence places it at after 2 A.M., which narrows the field still farther. Death must have been instantaneous, and naturally could not have been self-inflicted.'
Poirot nodded, and the commissary resumed:
'Madame Renauld was hastily freed from the cords that bound her by the horrified servants. She was in a terrible condition of weakness, almost unconscious from the pain of her bonds. It appears that two masked men entered the bedroom, gagged and bound her, while forcibly abducting her husband. This we know at second hand from the servants.'
'On hearing the tragic news she fell at once into an alarming state of agitation. On arrival, Dr. Durand immediately prescribed a sedative, and we have not yet been able to question her. But without doubt she will awake more calm, and be equal to bearing the strain of the interrogation.'
The commissary paused.
'And the inmates of the home, monsieur?'
'There is old Françoise, the housekeeper, she lived for many years with the former owners of the Villa Genevieve. Then there are two young girls, sisters, Denise and Léonie Oulard. Their home is in Merlinville, and they come of most respectable parents. Then there is the chauffeur whom Monsieur Renauld brought over from England with him, but he is away on a holiday. Finally there are Madame Renauld and her son, Monsieur Jack Renauld. He, too, is away from home at present.'
Poirot bowed his head. Hautet spoke: 'Marchaud!'
The sergent de ville appeared.
'Bring in the woman Françoise.'
The man saluted, and disappeared. In a moment or two he returned, escorting the frightened Françoise.
'Your name is Françoise Arrichet?'
'Yes, monsieur.'
'You have been a long time in service at the Villa Genevieve?'
'Eleven years with Madame la Vicomtesse. Then when she sold the villa this spring, I consented to remain on with the English master. Never did I imagine-'
The magistrate cut her short.
'Without doubt, without doubt. Now, Françoise, in this matter of the front door whose business was it to fasten it at night?'
'Mine, monsieur. Always I saw to it myself.'
'And last night?'
'I fastened it as usual.'
'You are sure of that?'
'I swear it by the blessed saints, monsieur.'
'What time would that be?'
'The same time as usual, half past ten, monsieur.'
'What about the rest of the household, had they gone up to bed?'
'Madame had retired some time before. Denise and Léonie went up with me. Monsieur was still in his study.'
'Then, if anyone unfastened the door afterwards, it must have been Monsieur Renauld himself.
Françoise shrugged her broad shoulders. 'What should he do that for? With robbers and assassins passing every minute! A nice idea! Monsieur was not an imbecile. It is not as though he had had to let the lady out-'
The magistrate interrupted sharply: 'The lady? What lady do you mean?'
'Why, the lady who came to see him.'
'Had a lady been to see him that evening?'
'But yes monsieur-and many other evenings as well.'
'Who was she? Did you know her?'
A rather cunning look spread over the woman's face.
'How should I know who it was?' she grumbled. 'I did not let her in last night.'
'Aha!' roared the examining magistrate, bringing his hand down with a bang on the table. 'You would trifle with the police, would you? I demand that you tell me at once the name of this woman who came to visit Monsieur Renauld in the evenings.'
'The police-the police,' grumbled Françoise. 'Never did I think that I should be mixed up with the police. But I know well enough who she was. It was Madame Daubreuil.'
The commissary uttered an exclamation, and leaned forward as though in utter astonishment.
'Madame Daubreuil-from the Villa Marguerite just down the road?'
'That is what I said, monsieur. Oh, she is a pretty one.'
The old woman tossed her head scornfully.
'Madame Daubreuil,' murmured the commissary. Impossible.'
'Voila,' grumbled Françoise. 'That is all you get for telling the truth.'
'Not at all,' said the examining magistrate soothingly. 'We were surprised, that is all. Madame Daubreuil then, and Monsieur Renauld, they were-?' He paused delicately. 'Eh? It was that without doubt?'
'How should I know? But what will you? Monsieur, he was [garbled] and Madame Daubreuil, she was poor, that one-and tres chic, for all that she lives so quietly with her daughter. Not a doubt, of it she has had her history! She is no longer young, but then I who speak to you have seen the men's heads turn after her as she goes down the street. Besides lately, she has had more money to spend-all the town knows it. The little economies, they are at an end.' And Françoise shook her head with an air of unalterable certainty.
M. Hautet stroked his beard reflectively.
'And Madame Renauld?' he asked at length. 'How did she take this-friendship?'
Françoise shrugged her shoulders. 'She was always most amiable-most polite. One would say that she suspected nothing. But all the same, is it not so, the heart suffers, monsieur? Day by day, I have watched Madame grow paler and thinner. She was not the same woman who arrived here a month ago. Monsieur, too, has changed. He also has had his worries. One could see that he was on the brink of a crisis of the nerves. And who could wonder, with an affair conducted in such a fashion? No reticence, no discretion. Son les anglais without doubt!'
I bounded indignantly in my seat but the examining magistrate was continuing his questions, undistracted by side issues.
'You say that Monsieur Renauld had not to let Madame Daubreuil out? Had she left, then?'
'Yes, monsieur. I heard them come out of the study and go to the door. Monsieur said goodnight and shut the door after her.'
'What time was that?'
'About twenty-five minutes after ten monsieur.'
'Do you know when Monsieur Renauld went to bed?'
'I heard him come up about ten minutes after we did. The stair creaks so that one hears everyone who goes up and [missing].
'And that is all? You heard no sound of disturbance during the night?'
'Nothing whatever, monsieur.'
'Which of the servants came down the first in the morning?'
'I did, monsieur. At once I saw the door swinging open.'
'What about the other downstairs windows, were they all fastened?'
'Every one of them. There was nothing suspicious or out of place anywhere.'
'Good. Françoise, you can go.'
The old woman shuffled towards the door. On the threshold she looked back.
'I will tell you one thing, monsieur. That Madame Daubreuil she is a bad one! Oh, yes, one woman knows about another. She is a bad one, remember that.' And, shaking her head sagely, Françoise left the room.
'Léonie Oulard,' called the magistrate.
Léonie appeared dissolved in tears, and inclined to be hysterical. M. Hautet dealt with her adroitly. Her evidence was mainly concerned with the discovery of her mistress gagged and bound, of which she gave rather an exaggerated account. She, like Françoise, had heard nothing during the night.
Her sister, Denise, succeeded her. She agreed that her master had changed greatly of late.
'Every day he became more and more morose. He ate less. He was always depressed.' But Denise had her own theory.

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The Curtain

2007-10-20T12:13:00.000-07:00

CASE A. ETHERINGTON
Leonard Etherington. Unpleasant habits-took drugs and also drank. A peculiar and sadistic character. Wife young and at tractive. Desperately unhappy with him. Etherington died, apparently of food poi soning. Doctor not satisfied. As a result of autopsy, death discovered to be due to arsenical poisoning. Supply of weed killer in the house, but ordered a long time pre viously. Mrs. Etherington arrested and charged with murder. She had recently been friends with a man in Civil Service returning to India. No suggestion of actual infidelity, but evidence of deep sympathy between them. Young man had since be come engaged to be married to girl he met on voyage out. Some doubt as to whether letter telling Mrs. Etherington of this fact was received by her after or before her husband's death. She herself says before. Evidence against her mainly circumstan tial, absence of another likely suspect and accident highly unlikely. Great sympathy felt with her at trial owing to husband's character and the bad treatment she had received from him. Judge's summing up was in her favour, stressing that verdict must be beyond any reasonable doubt.
Mrs. Etherington was acquitted. General opinion, however, was that she was guilty. Her life afterwards very difficult owing to friends, etc., cold-shouldering her. She died as a result of taking an over dose of sleeping draught two years after the trial. Verdict of accidental death re turned at inquest.

CASE B. SHARPLES

Elderly spinster. An invalid. Difficult, suffering much pain. She was looked after by her niece, Freda Clay. Miss Sharples died as a result of an overdose of morphia. Freda Clay admitted an error, saying that her aunt's sufferings were so bad that she could not stand it and gave her more mor phia to ease the pain. Opinion of police that act was deliberate, not a mistake, but they considered evidence insufficient on which to prosecute.

CASE C. RIGGS

Edward Riggs, agricultural labourer. Sus pected his wife of infidelity with their lodger, Ben Craig. Craig and Mrs. Riggs found shot. Shots proved to be from Riggs's gun. Riggs gave himself up to the police, said he supposed he must have done it, but couldn't remember. His mind went blank, he said. Riggs sentenced to death, sentence afterwards commuted to penal servitude for life.

CASE D. BRADLEY

Derek Bradley. Was carrying on an in trigue with a girl. His wife discovered this; she threatened to kill him. Bradley died of potassium cyanide administered in his beer. Mrs. Bradley arrested and tried for murder. Broke down under cross-exami nation. Convicted and hanged.

CASE E. LITCHFIELD

Elderly tyrant, Matthew Litchfield. Four daughters at home, not allowed any plea sures or money to spend. One evening on returning home, he was attacked outside his side door and killed by a blow on the head. Later, after police investigation, his eldest daughter, Margaret, walked into the police station and gave herself up for her father's murder. She did it, she said, in order that her younger sisters might be able to have a life of their own before it was too late. Litchfield left a large fortune. Margaret Litchfield was adjudged insane and committed to Broadmoor, but died shortly afterwards.

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