Charlie Martz and Other Stories by Elmore Leonard Page A

Lee lying in the doorway of the police post. There was a smaller photograph of Constable Yeop, obviously posed, standing at attention with carbine at his shoulder.
    The text of the write-up inferred that Tam Lee had come to the police post to assassinate Clad. It told how the alert Constable Yeop shot him as he attempted to flee. Halfway down the column Ah Min was mentioned: civil service typist, an innocent victim, murdered in cold blood simply because she had been in the office.
    The story even told how the reporter and photographer happened to be on the spot; but other than this indirect reference, there was no mention, not even on the sports pages, of the Selangor State Badminton finals.
    Clad stood in the outer office. Lowering the newspaper, his gaze went to Yeop’s desk.
    â€œWell, you were wrong about her.”
    The Malay nodded.
    â€œStill,” Clad said, “if you hadn’t suspected Minnie you wouldn’t have bagged Tam Lee.” He folded the newspaper under his arm. “There must be a lesson to be learned from this.” He was thinking of the fifteen villages, all likely targets as far as Tam Lee was concerned; yet the man had come here. And only because one Malayconstable had kept his eyes open was Tam Lee now a past concern.
    â€œBut what the lesson is,” Clad said then, “I’m pretty sure I don’t know.”
    At his desk, his feet up on the corner, Clad opened the newspaper to the sports pages. His eyes went over the columns carefully. But no, there wasn’t even one inch devoted to the badminton finals. Perhaps if the games had been finished—
    He jotted down a reminder on his notepad: Why not play off b.t. anyway? Even if it didn’t work—at least something to do!!!
    He folded the note double, attached it to a dart, and apparently without aiming hit the center of his file board.

A Happy, Lighthearted People

1963
    W HAT WE TRY TO do,” the American said, “my wife and I, we watch the people as they come in the dining room and we try to figure where they’re from. You know, like that couple, he’s very tall and looks like Sinclair Lewis and she’s blond, kind of nice-looking.”
    Paco, the day clerk, standing behind the lobby desk, had never heard of Sinclair Lewis, but he nodded pleasantly.
    â€œWe thought sure they were British,” the American went on, “and they turn out to be Dutch.”
    â€œYes,” Paco said. “We have the Dutch couple . . .”
    â€œHey, and the Italian countess, with the monkey.”
    â€œShe has a ranch in Kenya,” Paco explained.
    â€œIs she really a countess?”
    â€œThey say she is.”
    â€œNow the Norwegian couple we knew weren’t English.”
    â€œYou knew them before?”
    â€œNo, no. I mean you can tell by looking at them. And as soon as you talk to her you find out her husband’s a ship owner. Every other word: ‘We have a big house and a chauffeur because my husband is a ship owner, you know.’ Or: ‘I was skiing last week in the mountains . . . my husband is a ship owner, you know.’ But the one that really fooled us is the fellow with the cane and the little Pekingese. We call him The Duke. He wears an ascot, duck shorts, kneesocks, and we find out from that couple from London, the Grahams? . . .”
    â€œThe Grahams. Four seventeen.”
    â€œNow they could pass for American.”
    â€œYes, they could.”
    â€œBut the fellow with the cane and the ascot, we find out, he is American and his wife, who looks American if anybody does, is English .”
    â€œThis time of year,” Paco said, “our guests are almost all English.”
    â€œI’ll say. Really English. You know that older couple with the son that’s tall and kind of bald and never says anything?”
    Paco nodded. “They went to Tangier today.”
    â€œRight. Well, they usually sit next to us at the swimming pool and