Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 52, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2007
- Автор: Baldwin Barry, Campbell Melodie
- Год: 2007
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: ISSN:0002-5224
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 52, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2007». Краткое содержание книги:
Now, I know that at this point I should have freed myself and stepped out of The Appliance, switched off the motor, and then made the necessary repairs. But everything at this point was happening slowly. There seemed no need for alarm.
But without the overhead tracking brace, wobble had set in. In fact, wobble was ineluctably increasing, and as I watched, the overhead tracking brace freed from its bracket and inclined slowly downward. The other end was still in its bracket, but the weight was obviously too much for the transverse braces behind me, which yielded with a sharp cracking sound, and caused what I estimate to be the transverse brace connecting bar to detach itself and deal me a sharp and painful blow on the back of the head. This in turn caused the two weight cages to which it was also bolted to fold slowly and fall outward, taking with them the vibrating belt motor assembly fixing brackets. I say this, although I am not sure, since I was held in my seat by the vibrating belt and was unable to see, but I could guess from the fact that the belt began to tighten to an unusual degree. The overhead tracking brace, freed from its bracket, was still ineluctably descending, pulled by the collapsing weights and bringing the handly-bar assembly toward me. I would have been easily able to lean agilely to one side had it not been for the vibrating belt, which had now slipped up from my stomach and was gripping me painfully round the chest. Other things were happening too. Some sort of structural meltdown appeared to be occurring, a deadly chain reaction in which beams, struts, and braces seemed to have taken on a malefic life of their own. The Appliance was falling to pieces around me. During the next thirty seconds everything seemed to be in motion around me. It was like being in one of those little glass snowstorms that my mother used to collect.
I may at this point have shouted “No!” or “Stop!” or “Don’t!” I cannot clearly recall. In any case, it was to little or no avail, I fear. The handly-bar was now pressed against my chest and wanted to go farther. The restraining belt was pulling my head farther and farther backward, but clearly unaware of this, the motor, silly thing, was pushing the sliding seat farther and farther forward. As if this weren’t enough, the diagonal bracing strut (r) freed, I imagine, by the fracture of the transverse braces behind me, had fallen across my right arm, and had become unaccountably lodged under the seat track, and my left arm was held in what I believe is irritatingly known as a vicelike grip by the diagonal bracing strut (l). The handly-bar and its subassembly and its overhead tracking brace rested its full weight on my chest. There was a fleeting moment of dangerous equilibrium, and then the motor, which had been trying to maintain the sliding seat’s movement and at the same time pull the vibrating belt through my throat, began to overstrain itself and emit sparks. Then we were plunged into darkness and everything stopped before, thank goodness, the belt had actually succeeded in pulling my head off.
At first I thought I had fallen into a swoon. But then I realized that the motor’s overexertions had asked too much of the circuit breakers, which had flipped open. And judging by the lack of even reflected light from the doorway, it was the main circuit breaker that had gone.
That, as far as I can judge, was two days ago. Time has ceased to have any significant meaning for me, but I have been able to track the passing of the hours by the moon and the sun, which shine in through the tiny window at the top of the wall. And an amusing little incident occurred last night, when a tiny ray of moonlight, passing through the framework of The Appliance, shone directly onto my leg. Despite my position, I could see a tiny glint of metal. This puzzled me for a while, until I realized that it was the missing overhead tracking brace swivel link pin, which must have fallen into my trouser turn-up during the unpacking process. This humorously ironic note made me rock with (obviously) suppressed laughter and lifted my morale to no end.
I have to admit I am hungry and tired. I cannot sleep because of the pain in my arms and back and throat. But the picture is not all black. Because there is no heating down here, and the air is humid, during the night, moisture forms on the chrome handles of the handly-bar, and by turning my head sideways as far as it will go, I have been just able to lick it off with my tongue. So thirst, at least overpowering thirst, is not one of my problems.
The telephone has rung several times. I imagined once or twice that it might be Mr. Patel ringing me to see if everything was going well with The Appliance. I invented a little scenario in which, warned by some sixth sense that all was not well and that I was in mortal danger, he marshaled his vast network of contacts and succeeded in contacting the local police, who broke in and released me. But this was only a waking dream brought on by hunger and thirst, and perhaps a slight case of chromium poisoning.
And help will be at hand ere long.
By my reckoning, Petunia will be returning tomorrow night. She will be coming in on the evening flight from Deauville St. Gatien, I remember quite distinctly her telling me. So she will arrive at the house after dark.
She will enter the house, puzzled at the lack of illumination. But she will wipe her feet before entering the hall as I have trained her to do. She will hang up her coat and not throw it in a heap on an armchair in the sitting room, as the small printed notice pasted next to the hall stand will remind her. She will then try the light switch and when it does not work, she will understand the situation. She will therefore pick up the torch that I keep on the hall table for just such emergencies. At that point, I will call out to her as loudly as my condition permits.
She will descend to the basement and open the door. She will shine the torch upon me and, with her handyman’s wife’s eye, will understand exactly what has happened. I may not be able to explain to her what is needed, but I will make such rudimentary gestures as I am capable of.
But Petunia will already have assessed the perilous situation I am in. She will see that the handly-bar is pressing against my chest and the vibrating belt has a murderous hold on my throat. She will observe my position, enmeshed in this devil’s spiderweb of metal and wood, pinioned like an insect. She will understand perfectly that if the motor starts again I will be a dead man, and she will discern exactly what it is she must do if she is to save her husband’s life.
So she will unplug The Appliance at the door before going upstairs to close the main circuit breaker.
The idea, which has occurred to me in my darker moments, that she won’t is, of course, ridiculous.
Isn’t it?
A Prisoner of Memory
by Robert S. Levinson
“Hey, handsome! Need your help.”
She was a presence out of my past, but I knew at once it was Laura Dane. There was no mistaking the growl exploding in my ear with that trained stage actor’s ability to send a whisper up to the back of the second balcony, every precisely enunciated word blasting its way out of a throat sandpapered by years of chain-smoking.
I made sure anyway, verifying the source like the good newspaperman I am: “Laura?”
“I should be insulted that you’d have to ask,” she said. Coughed out a web of phlegm. “I didn’t have to wonder if it was you on the phone, Neil, did I?”
“You called me, Laura.”
“Still smart as a whip, you are, the same way you were so snappy smart in untangling the truth about Elvis and Marilyn in the long ago.” She was talking about a rumored love affair, which led to a series of murders I had a hand in solving. “Got something for you not nearly as glamorous, but dangerous. Down the line it’ll make front page headlines and some damn fine fodder for that Daily column of yours.”