100 Malicious Little Mysteries
- Автор: Alter Robert Edmond, Азимов Айзек
- Год: 1981
- Язык: английский
- Год: Barnes & Noble Books
- ISBN: 978-1-56619-922-3
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «100 Malicious Little Mysteries». Краткое содержание книги:
Boyd wasn’t home. Willis swore under his breath. What am I going to do now, he thought grimly as he returned to the car.
“Now what?” he said to the woman. “He’s not home. Now, look, whoever you are. This is not my fault. I have nothing to do with this. I should be home right now, not driving around with a... I’ve got to take you home or someplace. Do you live in an apartment, a house? Just tell me. Do you have any friends you could go to?”
She sank farther down in the seat. “I’m gettin’ cold. Let’s stop at Marty’s Coffee Shop and get some hot black coffee.”
The coffee shop was empty except for two men at the counter sitting on stools. A young waitress slowly wiped off the table tops of the booths. Willis guided the woman into a booth where she wedged herself into the corner. She seemed to be a little more manageable. The drunkenness was wearing off a bit, he hoped fervently.
The waitress brought them mugs of hot black coffee. The woman sipped the coffee slowly, much to Willis’ relief.
“Look, I’ve got to call home. I’ll be right back,” he said. The phone booth was at the front of the coffee shop. He saw the woman get up and go to the ladies’ room at the back of the shop. He put the box of cash beside the telephone.
His wife’s voice was frantic. “Where are you? What’s happened?” She listened attentively and patiently, as he knew she would. He explained slowly and carefully all that had happened. She was understanding but apprehensive.
The woman was sitting in the booth when he came back from the phone. She had straightened up considerably. She seemed much younger. Her hair was combed, her face freshly made up, and the dark green print scarf at her neck was tied in a fashionable bow.
She lit a cigarette and looked evenly at Willis.
“I do a pretty convincing drunk, don’t I? I’ve had enough practice. I can also be a salesclerk, a garden club president, a mother-in-law waiting for her kids to show up, and a new clerk in the accounting division of a large company. I’m one of twelve women in this state licensed to be a private investigator. I’m fifty-five years old, a grandmother, and being an old lady is no stumbling block in this work.”
Willis’ face had gone ashen white.
“That box you have with you, Willis. Mr. Boyd and another company man are coming in the front door now. And if it’s cash payments for all those company machines and supplies you and the shipping crew have been funneling off on the side, you’ll have to explain it to them.”
Her face was calm and serene — and smiling. Now she looked like what she really was — somebody’s sweet old grandmother.
Comes the Dawn
by Michael Kurland
The sun was just sending its slanting rays over the mountains to the East, etching the pattern of the adobe rooftops into the walls of the buildings across the street, when the first daylight patrol of the Guardias Municipales found the twisted body of what had been a man lying in the dust. At first they thought it was just another looter...
Civil insurrection, even in a country where it is almost the normal pattern of life, is always an ugly thing. Whether it is right or wrong, good or evil, necessary or irrelevant, it is the handmaiden of chaos. Looting, raping, fire, and death are always within its domain. Its borders spread, and are not sharp or distinct. Unconnected events are swept before it as flotsam before the ocean tide.
Manuel Hispoza Forgas had a brother. This brother’s name was Philippe. Manuel did not like Philippe; a feeling which was reciprocated. These brothers lived in widely separate parts of the city and saw each other but seldom. Philippe’s dislike for his brother remained fairly constant through the passing years, he preferred to just not ever think about Manuel. Manuel’s feeling festered and grew into a supreme, blinding hatred; he could not help but think about Philippe constantly.
Philippe and Manuel shared jointly in their father’s estate. Philippe prospered with his portion, establishing a small furniture shop which grew into a major store over the years. Manuel tended to try more speculative ventures: mostly at the racetrack and cockfight. As Philippe’s fortunes rose, Manuel’s fell; and Manuel’s dislike of his brother increased.
It is incidental, perhaps, that Philippe married the very girl that Manuel, on afterthought, decided he would have liked to marry. It is predicatable that, of all the houses in the city, Manuel was most fond of the one in which Philippe happened to live.
Manuel’s hatred of his brother drove him to thoughts of murder. Shooting, strangulation, poison, defenestration; murder by axe, knife, car; all these fancies and more took up a large part of his imagination. He planned accidental deaths, locked room murders, and murders of passion. He read detective stories, true crime books, and medical journals. He became cognizant of every famous killer from Cain to Torquemada, from Richard III to Lizzie Borden. That he restrained from committing that most horrible and fascinating of all crimes can be attributed only to one fact — Manuel’s extreme cowardice. These famous murderers, Manuel would reflect when reading about Mrs. Simms or Doctor Crippen, became famous not because they committed murder, but because they got caught. Manuel didn’t have a very high regard for the local police, but if there were the slightest chance — however small — of hanging for his crime, Manuel would keep it a secret dream.
The wonderful idea came to Manuel on the second day of the insurrection. On the evening of the third day he went to find Philippe to tell him about it. Philippe, who as usual was working late in his store after the clerks had gone home, let Manuel in when he knocked.
“You want something?” Philippe asked.
“Don’t be unfriendly,” Manuel replied. “I’ve come here this evening out of concern for you. The riots in this part of the city are horrible: looting, burning, killing.”
“I’m touched that you have such concern for me,” Philippe commented, and went back to his desk. “But you could have seen me at the house, I have to be leaving soon.”
“Ah, yes. The curfew starts shortly, doesn’t it?” Manuel asked.
“It does. And I don’t want to have to spend the night here.”
“If the riots start again tonight, aren’t you afraid the store will be looted, or perhaps burned?”
“I should think that would please you,” Philippe commented. “I think the Giuirdias Municipales have the situation well under control. Besides, I carry heavy insurance.”
“Ah!” Manuel shrugged. “Insurance, of course.” He sat down on the desk Philippe was working at, and leaned over Philippe. “Before you leave,” he said, “I want to tell you of the brilliant idea I had yesterday. I’ve been thinking about it for two days, and it seems perfect. Perhaps you can find a flaw in it?”
Philippe threw down his pencil. “You’re sitting right on the papers I’ve been trying to work on. I don’t give a fig for your ideas — get up and get out of here!”
“Ah, but this idea concerns you,” Manuel said. He took a large, heavy revolver from under his shirt, and pointed it at his brother.
Philippe jumped up, upsetting his chair. “What’s this?” he demanded shrilly.
“A revolver,” Manuel told him. “It’s quite old, but I think it will work. I’m going to kill you with it.”
Philippe straightened the chair, and sat down again: slowly, as though he were sitting on a case of eggs. “Kill me? You wish to kill me?”
“I’ve wished nothing else for many years.”
“They’ll hang you,” Philippe said.
“I think not,” Manuel answered. “And I’ve been thinking about it quite a lot. Let me explain.”