They were up bright and early, as usual—it seemed to Raven that no one ever slept late in Africa—then had a quick breakfast and hit the trail. Raven studied the map, wished some of the landmarks were familiar to him or that some of the words made more sense, then gave it to Njobo to hold (and, he hoped, to secretly read).
They disturbed a herd of impala that was grazing peacefully and suddenly thundered off in a panic, received a baleful glare from a leopard that had been stalking them in the high grass, and stopped when they came to a stream.
Njobo came over and said, in tones so low only Raven could hear, “We are getting near.”
“Oh?”
Njobo nodded his head. “They are not far from this stream.”
Raven frowned. “Are you sure? Everything looks the same—flat, green, unexceptional.”
“What better place to remain hidden for all these eons?” replied Njobo with a smile.
Raven walked over to where Elizabeth was standing. “I think it’ll be today,” he said.
“How I wish I’d brought along a camera!” she said. “Just to prove to people that we found the mines,” she added with a smile.
“You start flashing a few hundred diamonds and they’ll figure it out by themselves,” replied Raven, returning her smile.
“You know, Mr. Quatermain, we haven’t given a moment’s thought as to how we’re going to bring the spoils, such as they are, back with us.”
“We’ve got Njobo and seven other men,” said Raven. “Each one can easily carry enough to buy a small country or two.”
She chuckled. “I like the way you think, Mr. Quatermain.”
“And I like almost everything about you, Lisa,” he replied.
“Elizabeth,” she corrected him.
“I apologize, Elizabeth.”
“I wonder about this Lisa,” she said. “I get the feeling you were quite taken with her.”
He sighed deeply. “Quite.”
“What did she look like?”
“Look into a mirror,” said Raven.
“I mean really.”
“A bit like Morgan le Fay, a bit like Ingrid Bergman, even a little like a girl on her way to Oz.”
“I don’t understand any of the references,” she said.
“Why should you?” he said, half wistfully and half bitterly. “After all, you’re Elizabeth Curtis.”
She stared at him. “Are you quite all right, Mr. Quatermain?”
He nodded his head. “Yeah, I suppose so. But I’d be even better if you’d start calling me Alan.”
“That would be quite improper”—a sudden smile—“Alan.”
“I won’t tell anyone if you won’t,” he said.
She was about to reply when they heard trumpeting off to their left. He turned and held his binoculars up to his eyes.
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
He stared for another moment, then chuckled and lowered the binoculars. “A pair of outraged mothers.”
She frowned. “Outraged mothers?”
“A pride of lions that’s hunting wildebeest got a little too close to two or three elephant babies. The trumpeting was just to scare them off.”
“Good!”
“I agree,” he said. “Now if we could just scare off whoever or whatever’s guarding the mines . . .”
“Is someone?” she asked.
“They wouldn’t remain undiscovered if someone wasn’t,” he answered.
She sighed deeply. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth the effort. It was Henry’s dream, and he’s gone now.”
“So now it can be your dream,” said Raven. “It certainly belonged to enough others over the centuries.”
“Henry left me very well off,” she replied. “I’m paying for this out of petty cash. As we get closer, I keep wondering how badly I want those diamonds.”
Raven shook his head. “It’s not the diamonds.”
“It isn’t?”
“It’s how badly you want to be the first person to enter the mines, to be the first person to definitely find them after so many have failed.”
She considered what he had said. “I suppose you’re right. And why are you here, Mr. . . . Alan?”
“Because I’m not in Manhattan,” he said bitterly.
“I beg your pardon?” she said. “Have you ever been in Manhattan?”
He shrugged. “There are days when I wonder,” he replied.
“About what?”
“Don’t get me started,” he said with a bitter smile, “or we’ll die of old age before we cover the last couple of miles.” He looked ahead. “Might as well get moving. You never know who might be coming from a different direction.”
He signaled to Njobo, who in turn signaled to his men, and soon the entire party was walking again, Raven constantly forcing himself to walk more slowly so that Elizabeth/Lisa didn’t find herself trailing her entire party. Every half hour or so they had to chase an animal or two out of their path, but they proceeded without any serious incident until midafternoon.
“Why are we stopping, Mr. Quatermain? I mean, Alan?”
“If the map is right, it’s just around that cluster of termite mounds by the hill there,” replied Raven. “If it’s protected, and the odds are that it is, I’d like to try to spot them before marching straight in.”
“Sensible,” she said, nodding her head. “Very sensible.”
They stood where they were for a few minutes. Then Raven waved Njobo and two others ahead, pointing to where he wanted them to station themselves.
“Shouldn’t we proceed?” she asked.
“As soon as they tell us to,” replied Raven.
A moment later Njobo waved an arm.
“Now,” said Raven, taking her by the arm and starting to walk forward.
They reached Njobo in another minute.
“So where are they?” asked Raven.
Njobo pointed to a spot just behind the termite mounds.
“Good!” Raven turned to Elizabeth/Lisa. “I hope you’re tired of merely being a millionaire, because you’re about to come into some really big money.”
“I’ll just have to adjust to it,” she said with a smile. She took a step, then paused. “You’re sure it’s safe?”
“Njobo says it is, and I trust him.”
“Then let’s go.”
They reached the first of the termite mounds. Raven smiled at her. “Two more steps and we’re—”
The transition was swift, painless, almost instantaneous.
Oh, goddamnit! he tried to scream, but nothing came out—and then, suddenly, he found that he was sitting in a chair in his apartment.
Alone.
It took him a couple of minutes to realize that he really was back in Manhattan. Then he immediately left his apartment, walked out of the building, and went to the featureless building that held Rofocale’s single room. He climbed the stairs, considered knocking, decided that Rofocale was in no shape to walk over and open the door (or lock it, when he had left previously), and just entered.
The large reddish entity, which Raven thought of alternately as a man and a creature, lay on the bed. In fact, it looked like he hadn’t moved since Raven had last seen him.
“Rofocale?” he said softly.
There was no response.
“Goddamnit, I’d like some answers!”
Rofocale didn’t move.
For a moment Raven thought he was dead, but then he saw his chest rise and fall and knew the man (or whatever) was still alive.
“Damn it!” growled Raven. “A few days ago, or a week, or a month, who the hell knows anymore, I was just a normal guy, taking my lady around town and figuring I’d propose to her that night, or at least by the weekend. Then we walk into that idiot fortune-teller’s shop, the owner gets killed, you get shot, Lisa gets shot, and I spend the next—hours, days, weeks, who the hell knows—trying to get back here from Casablanca and Oz and Camelot and Africa. In the process I lose my memory of everything meaningful in my life—my past, my friends, my accomplishments if any—and here we are. You’re still unconscious, and who the hell knows where Lisa is or even who she’ll be next? What did I ever do to deserve this?”
It’s not what you’ve done, said Rofocale’s voice inside his head. It’s what you can do.
“Am I some kind of threat?” demanded Raven. “And if so, to whom? And what has Lisa got to do with it?”
Questions, questions.
“Then how about some answers, answers, now that you’re awake?”
That would be telling.
“You bet your ass it’d be telling!” snapped Raven. “And if you still want to be attached to your ass and other body parts by morning, you’d better start answering some questions.”
I know it’s hard for you to grasp, Eddie, but everything makes sense, even if you can’t see it—and on the day you can see it, you’ll be able to put what you’ve learned to use.
“Stop sounding like a quiz show for four-year-olds and just answer some simple questions,” growled Raven. “Like why do I keep winding up in these other worlds?”
They are all your world, Eddie—or at least versions of it.
“All right, other realities, then. Why is Lisa in all of them? Why aren’t you in any of them?”
Good questions, Eddie. I approve.
“A little less approving and a little more answering, damn it!” snapped Raven.
I wish I could do what you want, Eddie, but even I am bound by rules.
“By what rules?” demanded Raven.
By . . . the . . . most . . . stringent . . . kind.
Suddenly the mental connection weakened and faded, and Raven knew that Rofocale had passed out again. He decided to check the man/creature’s wounds and determine whether to call 911 and have him carted back off to the hospital.
He walked over to the bed, pulled the covers back from Rofocale’s torso, and stared, frowning. The hideously infected wound that had covered half his chest and was festering just a few days ago was completely healed. The shot to his belly was now no more than a scratch.
What the hell am I dealing with? he wondered—and then, given his experiences since the shooting, he decided that it was time to hunt for answers rather than wait for them to seek him out.
His mind made up, Eddie Raven walked out of the room, shut the door behind him, decided not to trust the dilapidated elevator, went down the stairs and out into the cool night air, clearly a man with a renewed sense of purpose.
He knew he didn’t want to go back to his apartment, because he was sure all he would do was sit around and brood, and that wasn’t going to solve his problem. The only place he had a key to was his office in the Garment District, and he turned and started walking there. He was only panhandled three times—a record—and within twenty minutes he unlocked the door, tried to ignore the stale air, turned on a light, and sat down at his desk.
Okay, I’ve been a saloon keeper, a Munchkin, a white hunter, even Mordred, so I guess I can be a detective too.
He frowned.
What would a shamus do? Well, first of all he’d collect clues to help solve his problem . . . but my clues are in Oz and Camelot and Africa, so what do I do instead?
He grimaced and frowned again.
I suppose the thing to do is start putting together a case for who I am and who my enemies are—and the place to start is right here in my world. Or at least what I think of as my world.
Now, I truly believe that I am Eddie Raven. I believed it when I was a Munchkin or a hunter, so maybe I should begin by making sure I’m right.
“And I’d damned well better be right!” he growled aloud. “If I’m not, then . . . hell . . . I don’t know.”
“I wish you wouldn’t cuss quite so much,” said a familiar voice. “You’ll scare away all our clients.”
“Where are you?” he demanded, looking around.
The door opened. “I was just getting some coffee.”
He stared at her. It was Lisa, all right, but Lisa with a difference. She wore a short miniskirt, an exceptionally tight sweater, had a pen tucked behind her left ear, and carried a cup of coffee in her right hand.
“Lisa?” he said.
She sighed deeply. “Velma,” she said. “It’s Velma, Eddie.”
He frowned. “You’re Lisa, damn it!”
She shook her head. “Get real, Eddie! This is the Eddie Raven Agency,” she replied. “Everyone knows that private eyes go around packed, wear trench coats, and have secretaries named Velma.”
“What if I call you Lisa instead?”
“I’ll spill my coffee on you and take that job Snake McDougal has been offering me,” she said. “He knows how to treat a secretary.”
He considered what she said for almost a full second, resisted the urge to suggest that McDougal’s last secretary probably wound up in the room next to Lisa’s in the hospital, and leaned back. “Pull up a chair, Velma.”
“Thanks,” she said, seating herself opposite him on the far side of the desk. She picked up a pad of paper, thumbed through it, nodded to herself, took the pen from behind her ear, and stared at him. “So what have we got so far?”
He grimaced. “Not much. What the hell was the name of the phony little mystic whose shop got shot up at the beginning of all this?”
Velma checked the notepad. “Mako.”
“I suppose he’s dead now?”
“Yes.”
He sighed. “Yeah, it was too much to hope for. Any description of the shooter?”
She smiled grimly. “Seven eyewitnesses saw him fleeing—and there are seven different descriptions of him.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Because you’re a detective.”
“Maybe I should have sold suits and dresses instead,” he said. “At least we’re in the right neighborhood.”
“Eddie Raven selling three-piece suits and floor-length gowns?” she said. “Don’t make me laugh.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “Okay, so after the killer left, there were just four of us in the shop.”
“Well, three plus a corpse.”
“Right,” said Raven. “And that’s the puzzle.”
Velma frowned. “I don’t follow you, Eddie.”
“Clearly the shooter wasn’t there to kill Mako.”
“Why not?” she asked. “It makes as much sense as anything.”
Raven shook his head. “If Mako was his target, why stick around?”
“You’re not thinking this through, Eddie,” said Velma firmly. “He wasn’t ‘sticking around,’ as you put it. He was killing witnesses.”
“No,” said Raven emphatically. “He never fired a shot at me.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” she admitted.
“And if he was good enough to put a single shot through Mako’s eye, how did he manage to put a couple of bullets each into you and Rofocale when you were both defenseless, and fail to kill you as well?”
“Into me?” she said, frowning. “I wasn’t there. And who is Rofocale?”
“The big guy who was there.”
She sighed deeply. “I don’t know the answer.”
“So nobody seems to have gotten a look at him either?”
She shook her head.
“Okay, we’ll just have to tackle it from a different angle.”
“Sounds good to me, Eddie.”
“What’s become of the shop?” said Raven. “After all, if he wanted Lisa and Rofocale dead, he’d have put another bullet or two into each of them. I think he was just getting rid of witnesses, and that his real target was Mako. So what’s happened to the store—and while we’re at it, was anything missing?”
“You already told me to check that out,” said Velma.
“I did?” he said, surprised.
She nodded. “And everything’s still in the shop. I gather it’s being auctioned off next month.”
“And nothing’s missing?”
“They don’t think so.” Suddenly she smiled and shrugged. “But given what was there—all those exotic trinkets—who the hell would know?”
“Lisa doesn’t talk like that,” he noted with a frown.
“I’m Velma, Eddie,” she replied.
“Okay, point taken,” said Raven. “So we come to the real mystery.”
“Which is?”
“Nobody in that shop carried a weapon except the killer. So why did he shoot three of you and leave me alone?”
“Maybe he ran out of bullets,” she suggested.
He grimaced and shook his head. “That’s a Velma kind of answer. Be Lisa for a while and help me figure this out.”
“I am Velma,” she insisted.
“Okay,” said Raven. He stared at the featureless wall off to his left. “This is gonna sound crazy, but I can only come up with one answer.”
“That’s one more than I’ve got,” she replied. “What is it?”
“He has some purpose for me,” said Raven. “I don’t know what it is yet, but he let me live.” He frowned. “Given this milieu, I wouldn’t be surprised if he shows up one of these hours or days and thinks I owe him.”
“You know, that makes sense,” said Velma.
“Damn!” muttered Raven.
“What is it, Eddie?”
“I’m not really a part of this world, but you are,” answered Raven. “And if you think it makes sense, then it almost certainly does.” He wished he hadn’t given up smoking. He felt like he’d kill for a bent Camel, which was strange since he’d never smoked a Camel in his life, and indeed hadn’t had a cigarette since he was a teenager. But based on all the mystery novels he’d read, smoking bent Camels was just how cheap hardboiled detectives calmed their nerves. “So do I wait for him here, or do I walk outside and show myself—and if I do, does he still have some reason not to shoot me?”
“This sounds like it’s going to be one of your tougher cases, Eddie,” said Velma. “At least in the past couple of months, anyway.”
“I’ve had tougher?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Such as?”
“How could you forget the Three-Legged Showgirl, or the Black-and-Blue Mailer?” said Velma. “Or the Balinese Pelican?”
“You know,” said Raven, “if I survive this case, maybe I’ll pack it in and become a mystery writer. Sounds like I’ve got a lot of material to draw upon.”
“Would you put me in one of your books—would you, Eddie?” said Velma eagerly.
“Sure,” said Raven. Hell, he thought, you’re my source for them. “But let’s solve this one first. I’d hate to get to chapter fifteen and have that bastard shoot me right before I sit down to write the climax.”
“Don’t joke about it,” she said. “You get shot at often enough as it is.”
“Am I smiling?” he replied.
There was a brief pause.
“Well,” said Raven, “I can either sit around here waiting for clients and a crazed shooter, or I can go out looking for clues.”
“I vote for clues,” said Velma.
“Oh?”
“Your clients all look like Playmates, and most of them are married to missing millionaires,” she said. “I don’t see how that can help us find the man we’re looking for.”
“A depressing but telling point,” agreed Raven. He got to his feet, donned his shoulder holster after making sure the gun was loaded, then put on his loose-fitting jacket that he was sure hid the gun, even though Velma assured him that it didn’t. “Okay,” he said, walking to the door. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” she asked.
“The logical starting point is Mako’s place, whatever the hell it’s called.”
“It’s all boarded up, Eddie,” she said.
“Still? The shooting was weeks ago.”
“Still,” she said. “I passed by it just yesterday.”
“What the hell,” said Raven. “It’s still the logical place to start.”
“But I told you: it’s locked and boarded up.”
“So what?” he said with a smile. “I’m a detective.”
“I don’t want you to get yourself killed, Eddie.”
“We’re in agreement on that, anyway,” said Raven.
“There are other, safer ways to go about this,” she said.
“But none of them are as fast,” he replied, “and for all I know I’m being hunted by a nut case with a gun.”
Velma sighed. “Okay, Eddie—let’s knock him dead.”
She opened the door and fell into step behind him as he walked out into the corridor.
They’d walked two blocks when Raven stopped, frowning.
“What is it, Eddie?” asked Velma.
“Something’s wrong,” he said. “Everyone’s staring at me.”
She smiled. “No, Eddie,” she said. “They’re staring at me. It happens all the time.”
He turned to her. “I guess you’re right.”
She waited for a few seconds. “Now you’re staring too.”
“Damn,” he muttered. “I apologize. Let’s get moving.”
They reached Fifth Avenue and turned north, then walked a few more blocks until they came to the shop.
“Amazing,” said Raven.
“What is, Eddie?”
“It’s still boarded up.”
“I told you it was,” said Velma.
“I know . . . but a location like this has to go for a few thousand a month. You’d think the owner would be screaming for them to open it up.”
“Maybe he is,” she said. “Would it make a difference?”
Raven shrugged. “No, probably not.”
He approached the door, examined the locks—both the one that came with the building and the two the police had added, and then studied the boards that had been nailed over the windows.
“They were thorough,” he said. “I’ll give them that.”
“Then we can’t get in?” asked Velma.
“Of course we can get in,” he replied. “I’m a shamus, remember? No lock can keep me out.”
“Well, then?” she said as he stood there, staring into the shop through a small piece of uncovered window. “If no lock can keep you out . . .”
“Those aren’t locks standing right across the street staring at us,” answered Raven. “Those are uniformed cops. C’mon.”
He turned and began walking down the sidewalk to the corner, followed by Velma, then turned, walked half a block to the alley between the streets, and turned into it. They proceeded down the cracked, broken pavement until they came to the back of Mako’s shop.
“Thorough indeed,” said Raven grimly, staring at the boards and locks. He turned to Velma. “Keep an eye out.”
“For cops?”
“For anybody,” he answered. “We’re as likely to get held up back here as arrested.”
“What do I do if someone starts approaching?” asked Velma.
“Shoot ’em,” said Raven. “Well, unless it’s a cop.”
“Eddie, I don’t carry a gun. You know that.”
“Okay, if it’s a crook, yell ‘Rape!’ and if it’s a cop, do a little dance and cuddle up to him.”
She stared at him, frowning. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Probably,” he said. “Just let me know if someone’s coming.”
“All right, Eddie.”
He reached into his pants pocket, pulled out the small metal instruments he liked to think of as his lock-picking kit, bent over, and went to work. A moment later there was an audible click and he signaled her to enter the shop, then followed her and secured the door behind them.
“So now that we’re here, what next?” asked Velma.
“We search for clues.”
“What will they look like?”
Raven sighed. “If they don’t have C-L-U-E written all over them, we’ll just have to use our imaginations.” She looked confused and distressed, and he stopped and turned to her. “Look,” he said more gently, “someone came here to kill Mako. I assume Rofocale was a regular customer, since he seems to know all about Mako. Now, whoever the shooter was, we have to assume he came here to steal something . . .”
“Why not just to kill Mako?” asked Velma.
“Because if it was just to kill Mako and nothing else, he could have stayed on the sidewalk and shot him through the front window. He couldn’t know if Rofocale or I were armed or not, so why take a chance?” Raven shook his head. “No, he had to enter the store.”
She looked around at the strange Oriental trinkets, the beautifully lettered scrolls, the exquisitely carved animals and people, the elegant swords and daggers, and frowned. “How can we know what’s missing?”
“That’s why we’re detectives,” he answered. “We’ll figure it out.”
“You’re a detective,” she said. “I’m just your secretary.”
“You’re much more than that, Lisa.”
“Velma,” she corrected him.
“Velma.” He slowly walked behind a counter, to where Mako was standing when he’d been shot, and made a face. “You’d think they’d have wiped the damned bloodstains off the floor. Hell, there’s even some on the back of the display case here.”
“They probably took a sample, realized it was Mako’s blood, or maybe Rofocale’s, and decided they didn’t need any more,” suggested Velma.
“Makes sense,” agreed Raven. “I don’t suppose any course in police training school specialized in showing them how to mop a floor—or a countertop.” He paused. “You’re staring at me.”
Suddenly she smiled. “If you’d said that mopping up was woman’s work, I was going to throw one of these beautifully made daggers at you.”
They both chuckled, and he began examining more artifacts. “Have you noticed how almost everything that isn’t a scroll or a piece of art is a weapon?” he said. “Most people use a container like this”—he indicated the large vase he was referring to—“for umbrellas. Mako used it for spears.”
“And there’s a crossbow hanging on the far wall,” said Velma. “There are really expensive pieces here, Eddie. It makes sense. I didn’t think he could pay for a location like this just by telling fortunes.”
“Only if telling fortunes included picking cheap horses who were moving up in class over at Aqueduct,” agreed Raven.
“This stuff is all so beautiful and so exotic, I don’t know how we’ll ever be able to tell what’s missing.”
“We’re not giving up three minutes after we arrive,” said Raven. “Someone’s dead, and you and Rofocale were in the hospital for weeks.”
“Me?” she said, puzzled. “I haven’t had a day off in two months.”
He grimaced. “My mistake,” he said, and then added silently, Perhaps, but I don’t believe it.
They spent another few minutes going over all the artifacts and opening boxes that were stacked in corners, but kept coming up blank. Finally they’d run through everything and stopped. Velma sat down on the only chair, and Raven leaned against the counter.
“So do we figure this was a dead end?” she asked.
“It may not have been the right approach, but it’s not a dead end,” answered Raven. “Mako was killed. There’s got to be a reason.” And part of that reason might explain why I’ve been a Munchkin, a Bogart clone, and a sorcerer.
“You know,” remarked Velma, “once you know the stock, as Mako must have, this is really a boring, confining little space. Imagine sitting on this chair eight hours every day.”
“Son of a bitch—that’s it!” exclaimed Raven.
She frowned. “What is? What are you talking about, Eddie?”
“He didn’t just sit where you are for eight hours a day,” said Raven. “If nothing else, he had to visit the bathroom every now and then. And with no hired help, he probably ate right on the premises.”
“He could have his food delivered, Eddie. He didn’t have to cook it here.”
“But he couldn’t have his toilet delivered,” said Raven. “There’s got to be a back room.”
They began examining the wall behind the chair and found a door behind the wall hanging. They walked through it and found themselves in a narrow area, perhaps ten feet by five, with a microwave on a shelf and another shelf holding an empty food tray. There was a sink and another door, this time a sliding one, that led to a small toilet.
“Not a lot more comfortable,” remarked Velma.
“Not any leads, either,” said Raven with a frown. “Yet there has to be some reason why he was killed, two of you were shot, and I was left totally alone.”
“I wasn’t shot,” insisted Velma.
“Humor me,” said Raven. “The answer’s got to be here somewhere . . . or if not the answer, at least a clue.” He looked around. “He’s got a microwave. He had to store his food somewhere before he cooked it. Where?”
Velma bent down next to the microwave, which sat above a small cabinet. She opened the door to it.
“Here it is, Eddie,” she announced. “A tiny freezer. Probably holds half a dozen frozen meals from the grocery store.”
“Are there any other cabinets, however small and unimpressive?” asked Raven.
There was one. It held a dozen paper plates, plastic knives, forks, spoons, plastic cups, and a half-empty bottle of ketchup.
“What a way to live!” muttered Raven. “Anything else?”
She looked around. “That’s it . . . and I’ve checked the drawers out in the shop. Cops left the art, but they took the money.”
Raven shrugged. “Cops have to live too, and Mako’s not going to need that money where he’s at.”
“So do we stay or go?”
Raven sighed deeply. “Might as well go. He had his chance to kill us once before. He’s not coming back to do it now.”
They were just about to leave the tiny room and go back into the store when Raven started to close the door of the washroom and saw something he’d ignored before.
“Just a sec,” he said.
“What is it?” asked Velma.
“Medicine cabinet,” answered Raven. “It’s unlikely that any of this had to do with drugs, but it’ll only take me ten seconds to check.”
“Go ahead,” said Velma.
He entered the little room, opened the cabinet, and froze, staring at what he found inside it.
“What is it, Eddie?” she asked after a moment. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Closer than you think,” he said, grabbing a piece of paper and carrying it out with him.
“What have you got there?” she asked.
He shrugged helplessly.
“I don’t understand,” said Velma.
“It means everything I’ve thought about this was wrong,” said Raven.
He held the paper up for her to see.
It was a target-pistol bull’s-eye—and superimposed over the bull’s-eye was a photo of Eddie Raven.