A Handful of Death

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Emil Kranz stood before a mirror in the cobwebby little office of the Hillsboro Feed Company and tried to brush the powdery grain dust out of his glossy black beard. Emil was proud of that beard; it covered the cleft in his chin and made him look quite distinguished. Especially when he was carrying his gold-headed walking stick and wearing his monocle. His tall spare build, he told his listeners at social functions, came from his rigid years of military discipline.

By referring to himself as Count Emmanuel, of royal blood, he had been able to separate many a frustrated middle-aged woman from her money. The only Europe Emil ever knew was on the dog-eared pages of an atlas he had picked up — price one dollar.

Of all the rich, homely women he had married and left along the road to Reno, his present wife, Reba, was proving the most difficult. Most of them were so proud to marry a title, husband included, that they carried him from afternoon teas to ball rooms as if he were too good to believe.

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