The Mystery Megapack

which I left in your hands, should receive only the most casual attention; for you would, naturally, taking my plan at its face value, think only of the second bag, which I assured you I did not want searched. Moreover, it would seem self-evident to you that the Number 1 bag, which I handed entirely over to your care, would never have anything dutiable in it; for, had you acted up to your agreement, there was no apparent reason for supposing that I would ever even handle it again. To insure your subconsciously realizing this, I even told you you could keep it, once it had served me in the matter of the substitution.
    “Of course, had you been faithful to our arrangement and substituted the Number 1 bag, to be searched, for the Number 2 bag, which I brought with me, I might have been in a hole. You see, the handle of the Number 1 bag contained the particular, shall we say, trinkets you were anxious to lay hands on.
    “But then, I knew, both from the smallness of my bribe and from my reading of your faces, and from the ways of customs officials in general, that you would go for the big ‘cop’ you felt sure you were wise to. It might have meant promotion—oh, and quite a number of desirable things, from your point of view.
    “After all, Wentock, even you,” I said quietly and pleasantly, “will now agree that honesty’s the best policy!
    “And that concludes all I have to say, practically. I planned it all out, even to the burst of anger and the snatching up of both my bags and walking off in that quite superb indignation, on discovery of your treachery. I did it well, didn’t I?—while you were so pleasingly and wittily inviting yourself to this final little dinner, which I had, even then, planned, like all the rest of it.
    “As I said in my note, you would be the gainers for coming tonight. That is so; for you are the richer for a dinner and an explanation, and Mr. Ewiss for an apology. That is all.”

DRAGON BONES, by Jacqueline Seewald
    Marshal Kevin Simmons of Expectation, Montana took it upon himself to personally answer Dave Paton’s call on a smoldering July day.
    “Someone’s gone and burned down that old shack on my back range, Marshal. And there’s a strange car out there as well. Thinkin’ I’m in terrible danger out here.”
    “Now don’t be getting crazy with fear. We’ll investigate.” One of the reasons Kevin Simmons kept his job was because he knew how to reassure people. And Paton appeared to need a whole lot of that.
    Simmons was a tall, well-built man who exuded confidence. His Marine Corps training had provided that among other things. Nearly forty and still a bachelor, police work was the most important thing in his life. People trusted him to do a good job and he tried not to let them down.
    In the shack’s ashes, the marshal and his deputies made a grisly discovery; they found two human skeletons, side by side, one male, one female. They also located empty gasoline cans, charcoal briquettes and a pistol.
    “Get the medical examiner’s office to send an investigator. We’re going to need a complete forensics exam on this,” Simmons said, his expression grim.
    Both deputies were locals, young, just out of school, and very excited about the case. Bill Lightfoot, a mixture of Cheyenne, Irish and African American ancestry, had thick glossy black hair and high cheekbones, while Frank Wilkons, a raw-boned cowboy with a fair complexion, had hair the color of butter and blue eyes.
    Out in the car, they found burglary tools and a hand-written suicide note signed by one Glen Parker.
    “What do you make of this?” Bill asked. He was the more curious of the two deputies.
    “First, we’ve got to find out who this Glen Parker is,” Simmons said, rubbing his mustache thoughtfully with his forefinger.
    “I got a feeling this Parker character was a felon,” Frank said.
    “Looks that way,” the marshal agreed. “We’ll run him through the system and see what comes up.”
    The following day, Simmons discovered that Glen Parker did indeed have a criminal record. He spoke with his deputies in his office. “Appears Parker was a thirty-five year old drifter and thief who served time in California.”
    Bill studied Parker’s mug shots. “Mean-looking cus. What are those tattoos on his arms?”
    Frank narrowed his sky bright eyes. “Dragons, I think.”
    “Or lizards maybe,” Bill said.
    “What about the woman with Parker?” Frank asked. “We got anything on her?”
    “In