Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 17, No. 4, April 1972
- Автор: Breese Edward Y., Бриттен Уильям
- Год: 1972
- Язык: английский
- Год: H.S.D. Publications
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 17, No. 4, April 1972». Краткое содержание книги:
“Marley was my pet canary,” explained Augustine softly. “It was probably my imagination, but it seemed to me when I bought him that he resembled a picture I’d seen of Marley’s ghost. And now he’s dead, sir.”
Orin would never get used to having men twenty years his senior call him ‘sir.’ “Augustine, I’m sorry your pet died,” he said. “But is that the only reason you came to see me? I watched you outside the office. You must have paced up and down for twenty minutes before you decided to come in. I thought you wanted to talk about something serious.”
“It is serious, Mr. Watkins.” Augustine Lanier slid still farther down into his chair and peered dolefully at Orin over the tops of his steel-rimmed spectacles. “You see, I believe I should be relieved of my duties here at The Center. I might be something of a security risk in the program.”
Orin looked at the older man in surprise. Augustine was one of the first employees taken on when The Center was constructed. He’d passed his security check with flying colors, according to the records. Past history, intelligence and psychological tests, polygraph results — all indicated a spotless reputation. Granted that The Center, dealing with the most deadly of pathogenic organisms, needed to be ultraselective in its choice of employees. Still, Augustine Lanier a security risk? Never.
“Look, Augustine, your pet died,” said Orin finally, “but that’s no reason to go into a blue funk and quit on us. Take the rest of the day off. Visit the pet stores in town. Buy another bird. You’ll soon forget Marley.”
“Oh, it’s not just that Marley died that has me worried, sir.” Augustine shook his head emphatically. “You see, he was strangled.”
“Strangled? How in blazes did he manage to strangle himself?”
“Oh, Marley didn’t do it himself, sir. It was no accident.”
“You mean you—”
“I... I don’t know.” Augustine removed a handkerchief from his hip pocket and began pressing it into a ball between his palms. “That’s part of the problem. And Marley’s death was just the first incident. These last few days have been so strange. I think perhaps I’m losing touch with reality, Mr. Watkins.”
Augustine made this last statement in an almost apologetic tone, as if somehow he were letting down not only Orin but the whole research center. One hand, containing the ball of handkerchief, rubbed at his eyes. “I’m sorry about disturbing you, sir,” he continued, “but I thought you’d need to know.”
That the old man had come in at all was a tribute to his faithfulness to The Center, Orin decided. How many people could admit the possibility of a mental breakdown, even to themselves? “Look, Augustine,” he said gently, “suppose you begin at the beginning. Now, tell me what’s been so strange about these last few days?” Surreptitiously he pressed a stud at the edge of his desk. A concealed microphone in the onyx pen set on the desk began ingesting Lanier’s words and feeding them to the electronic tape moving between its reels in the bottom drawer.
“It began last Friday, sir.” Augustine’s voice reminded Orin of one of his own sons, telling how a window had been broken with a slingshot. “It was in the morning, and I was afraid I’d be late for work. Generally, Mrs. Carrigan — she owns the house in town where I rent my room — would wake me if I was in danger of oversleeping, but she’s gone to visit relatives and won’t be back until the end of the month. And Sergeant Pomeroy — he’s the other roomer — he’s off on a fishing trip until later this week. So you see, I was alone in the house, and I guess I just forgot to set the alarm.”
Orin wondered if he would ever come to the point. “Pomeroy,” he said conversationally, “that’s Jerry Pomeroy, one of the guards at the west gate, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” nodded Augustine. “At any rate, when I left the house and went to my car, I found I’d forgotten my keys. That happens rather often, sir. Sorry I’m so absentminded.”
“Just so nobody else gets hold of them,” said Orin. “With your keys, anybody who managed to get inside could go almost anywhere, except the culture rooms, of course.”
“Oh, Mr. Watkins!” Augustine looked shocked. “They’ve never been out of my possession for more than a few seconds. Honestly, sir.”
“Okay, Augustine. Okay. Get on with your story.”
“I went back into the house and up to my room. That’s when I found him.”
“Him? You mean Marley?”
“Yes, sir. Lying right in the middle of the carpet, he was. And he’d been strangled — with my keys.”
Orin shook his head in confusion. “Strangled with keys,” he said slowly. “I don’t get that, Augustine.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir. It wasn’t with the keys exactly. I keep my key ring attached to a chain, and it was the chain that was wrapped around Marley’s neck. It was so tight it almost beheaded the poor thing.”
As he began to speak, Orin became the soul of sweet reasonableness. “It could happen,” he said. “When you went out, the bird got loose. It fluttered around the room, and somehow it got tangled in your key chain.”
“I suppose it could have happened that way, except—”
“Except what?”
“The chain hadn’t just been wrapped around Marley’s neck. It was knotted.”
Orin sat back, expelling his breath loudly. “No chance that the bird could have—”
“None, Mr. Watkins. It was a square knot.”
Odd, but nothing to do with the security of The Center, of course. That is, unless Augustine was going dotty and had at some time blacked out and strangled the bird himself.
“You mentioned a while back that the death of the bird was just the ‘first incident’,” said Orin suddenly. “What did you mean by that, Augustine?”
“Well, the next thing was the tools in my medicine cabinet, files, to be exact.”
“Files?”
“Yes. You see, I had a headache all day Friday, thinking about Marley and wondering how it could have happened. So when I got home that afternoon, I decided to take a couple of aspirin. Mrs. Carrigan lets me keep a bottle in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. I’m often subject to headaches.”
“Go on.”
“Well, I went to the second floor bathroom and drew a glass of water. Then I opened the medicine cabinet. Oh, the crashing and banging was terrible.”
“What crashing and banging?”
“When the files fell out. Long round ones they were, of blued steel. I believe they’re the type called ‘rattail’.”
“Well?” Orin nodded expectantly.
“That’s about all. But isn’t a medicine cabinet an odd place to keep files? Especially so many. There must have been at least two dozen. I’m afraid a couple of them chipped the sink rather badly. Mrs. Carrigan will be quite upset when she returns and finds the damage.”
“And how did these files get into the medicine cabinet?” asked Orin, a touch of sarcasm filtering into his voice.
“I... I don’t know, sir. They certainly weren’t there the previous evening, and yet I was the only person in the house. That’s what worries me, Mr. Watkins. Is it possible that, without realizing it, I put them there myself?”
“Umm. Possible, I suppose. It’s strange, though, that you’d have no recollection at all.”
“It almost sounds as if I might be... well... going out of my mind. Doesn’t it?”
“That’d be up to the medics to decide, Augustine,” said Orin. “But I wouldn’t worry about it. There has to be some logical explanation. Besides, I’d expect a man on the verge of insanity to experience hallucinations; visions, loss of reality, that sort of thing.”