Tell Tale: Short Stories Read online

  May They Rest in Peace

  THE PERFECT MURDER

  COINCIDENCES ARE FROWNED upon in a novel, whereas in real life they regularly occur.

  I had already read the proofs of Tell Tale and returned them to my publisher, when Reader’s Digest announced they would be relaunching their hundred-word short story competition later this year.

  The commissioning editor of Reader’s Digest invited me to take up the challenge a second time, and produce a hundred-word tale within twenty-four hours.

  Result? “The Perfect Murder.” I hope you enjoy my latest effort, and if you are a closet author yourself, perhaps you should finally come out, and also take up the challenge.

  ALBERT STARED AT THE PRISONER standing in the dock, well aware he hadn’t committed the murder.

  Albert had struck the fatal blow moments after Yvonne admitted she was seeing another man. He slipped out of her flat and into a telephone box on the other side of the road. When his rival appeared, he dialed 999.

  Twenty minutes later two detectives dragged the innocent man out of her apartment, threw him into the back of a police car and sirens blazing, sped off.

  “Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty of murder?”

  The foreman rose.

  “Guilty,” said Albert.

  FOREWORD TO HEADS YOU WIN

  Dear Reader,

  It was fun compiling these fourteen short stories after the challenge of writing seven volumes of the Clifton Chronicles.

  What I hadn’t anticipated would happen during that time is that I would come up with an idea for a stand-alone novel every bit as demanding and exciting as anything I have ever written in the past.

  For those of you who have already read the final volume of the Chronicles, This Was a Man, none of this will come as a surprise because Harry Clifton outlined the plot for you in the last chapter of that book.

  However, I thought I’d go one step further than Harry, and share with you the first four chapters of Heads You Win, which will be published in November 2018.

  I hope you enjoy it.

  Jeffrey Archer

  November 2017

  1

  “WHAT ARE YOU going to do when you leave school?” asked Alexander.

  “I’m hoping to join the KGB,” Vladimir replied, “but they won’t even consider me if I don’t get a place at the state university. How about you?”

  “I intend to be the first democratically elected president of Russia,” said Alexander laughing.

  “And if you make it,” said Vladimir who didn’t laugh, “you can appoint me as head of the KGB.”

  “I don’t believe in nepotism,” said Alexander, as they strolled across the schoolyard and out onto the street.

  “Nepotism?” said Vladimir, as they began to walk home.

  “It derives from the Italian word for nephew, and dates back to the popes of the seventeenth century, who often handed out patronage to their relations and close friends.”

  “Sounds just like the Soviet Union to me,” said Vladimir. “You just exchange the popes for the KGB.”

  “Are you going to the match on Saturday?” asked Alexander, changing the subject.

  “No. Once Leningrad reached the semifinals, there was never any chance of someone like me getting a ticket. But surely as your father’s the dock’s superintendent, you’ll automatically get a couple of seats in the reserved stand for party members.”

  “Not while he still refuses to join the Communist Party,” said Alexander. “And when I last asked him, he didn’t sound at all optimistic about getting a ticket, so Uncle Niko is my only hope.”

  As they continued walking, Alexander realized they were both avoiding the one subject that was never far from their minds.

  “When do you think we’ll find out?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Alexander. “I suspect the teachers enjoy watching us suffering, well aware it will be the last time they have any power over us.”

  “You have nothing to worry about,” said Vladimir. “The only discussion in your case is whether you’ll win the Lenin Scholarship to the foreign language school in Moscow, or be offered a place at the state university to study mathematics. Whereas I can’t even be sure of getting into any university, and if I don’t, my chances of joining the KGB are kaput.” He sighed. “I’ll probably end up working on the docks for the rest of my life, with your father as my boss.”

  Alexander didn’t offer an opinion as the two of them entered the tenement block where they lived, and began to climb the worn stone steps to their flats.

  “I wish I lived on the first floor, and not the fourteenth.”

  “You know as well as I do that only party members live on the first three floors, Vladimir. But I feel sure that once you’ve joined the KGB, you’ll come down in the world.”

  “See you in the morning,” said Vladimir, ignoring his friend’s jibe as he continued to climb another seven flights.

  * * *

  When Alexander opened the door to his family’s tiny flat, he recalled an article he’d recently read in a state magazine reporting that America was so overrun with criminals that everyone had two, sometimes three, locks on their front door. Perhaps the only reason they didn’t in the Soviet Union, he thought, was because no one had anything worth stealing.

  He went straight to his bedroom, aware that his mother wouldn’t be back until she’d finished work. He took several sheets of lined paper, a pencil, and a well-thumbed book out of his school satchel, and placed them on the tiny table in the corner of his room. He opened War and Peace at page 179 and continued to translate Tolstoy’s words into English. When the Rostov family sat down for supper, Leo appeared distracted, and not just because …

  Alexander was double-checking each paragraph for spelling mistakes, and to see if he could think of a more appropriate English word, when he heard the front door open. His tummy began to rumble, and he wondered if his mother had been able to smuggle any little tidbits out of the officers’ club at the docks, where she was the cook. He closed his book and went to join her in the kitchen.

  Elena gave him a warm smile as he sat down on a wooden bench by the table.

  “Anything special tonight, Mama?” Alexander asked hopefully.

  She smiled again, and began to empty her pockets, producing a large potato, two parsnips, half a loaf of stale bread, and this evening’s prize, half a sausage that had probably been left on an officer’s plate after lunch. A veritable feast, thought Alexander, compared to what his friend Vladimir would be eating tonight.

  “Any news?” asked Elena as she began to peel the potato.

  “You ask me the same question every night, Mama, and I keep telling you that I don’t expect to hear anything for at least another month, possibly longer.”

  “It’s just that it would make your father so proud if you won the Lenin Scholarship.” She put down the potato and placed the peel to one side. Nothing would be wasted. “You know, if it hadn’t been for the war, your father would have gone to university.”

  Alexander knew only too well, but he was always happy to be reminded how Papa had been stationed on the Eastern Front as a young corporal during the siege of Leningrad, and although a crack Panzer division had attacked his section continuously for ninety-three days, he’d never left his post until the Germans had been repelled and retreated back to their own country.

  “For which he was awarded the Defence of Leningrad medal,” said Alexander on cue.

  His mother must have told him the story a hundred times, but Alexander never tired of it, although his father never raised the subject. And now, almost twenty-five years later, after returning to the docks he’d risen to Comrade Chief Superintendent, with three thousand workers under his command. Although he wasn’t a party member, even the KGB acknowledged that he was the right man for the job.

  The front door opened and closed with a bang, announcing that his father had returned. Alexander smiled when he strode into the kitchen. T