Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 9, September 1982
- Автор: Холлидэй Бретт, Moore Arthur
- Год: 1982
- Язык: английский
- Год: Renown Publications
- ISBN: 0026-3621
- Жанр: Криминальные детективы
Электронная книга - «Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 9, September 1982». Краткое содержание книги:
His dilated eyes scanning the shocked entourage, Gregory slowly straightened his tie. “That, old timer, can be arranged.”
The following week was frustrating for Eddie. Nobody at Unicorn would talk to him. A new man had taken over his office, and even the computers had no record of his existence. He was persona non grata.
Eddie was almost grateful when Helen led him off to the University Lecture Series. But, despite his troubles, he found it difficult to concentrate on Professor Hardy, who treated the lecture platform like a ballet stage.
“So in the final analysis,” concluded the lecturer, “it’s difficult for one to determine Montresor’s exact motivation in getting his best friend drunk on the infamous cask of amontillado, leading him downstairs, and immuring him in his wine cellar.”
“Right now,” whispered Eddie to Helen, “I’d like to have some of that wine myself.”
“Ssssh!” she said.
“Next week will be my last lecture. Please read Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls.”
The bell almost tolled for Eddie later that night. After dropping Helen at the front door, Eddie went back, locked the gate, and headed toward the house. In the dry grass ahead he heard a snap. Instinctively he lunged behind a marble statue. His face buried in Helen’s geraniums, he heard a distinct sound from his past — the unmistakeable chatter of a chopper.
Then silence.
After a while Eddie rose. In front of him the ancient gladiator still stood, a pockmarked mass of marble.
It took him an hour to calm Helen down.
Then the telephone rang. In hurried whispers the Tampa Truck confirmed what Eddie had just learned first-hand — a contract was out on him. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who was paying for it.
As in the past, Eddie dialed the newspaper and put in the familiar classified ad: ESKIMO NEEDS ICE. CALL 954-3344.
Shortly after the evening edition hit the streets, the phone rang.
“I’m calling about the ad,” said a muffled voice.
“Iceman,” said a well-controlled Eddie, “the client is Richard Gregory, Unicorn Enterprises.”
Eddie thought he detected a slight chuckle.
“The usual terms. $20,000. Same P.O. box, in advance.”
The phone went dead.
Two days later so did Eddie’s adversary.
“Hurry up, Edward,” Helen called, checking her makeup in the hallway mirror. “We don’t want to be the last ones there.”
Fumbling with his French cuffs, Eddie slowly descended the staircase.
“What are you so nervous about? I thought the paper would help you relax.” She gestured to the foyer table where an open newspaper revealed: SUSPECTED GANG LEADER COMMITS SUICIDE. “Your Iceman has a certain class the way he made Gregory appear to have hanged himself.”
Eddie said vacantly, “He’s never failed to fulfill a contract.”
“You don’t seem too happy about this turn of events. After all, tomorrow you’ll be taking over the reins of Unicorn.”
“You don’t understand, Helen. That attempt on me two nights ago — it was the Iceman. Tampa told me the word on the streets was that Gregory hired the Iceman to get rid of me.”
“But Gregory’s dead.”
“That doesn’t matter to the Iceman. He’s a pro. He took the money up front — he’ll make the hit.”
Helen shivered. “Can’t you stop him?”
“How? Nobody knows who he is. That’s why he’s so effective.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t go out then.”
He kissed her cheek lightly. “I know how important tonight is for you. Not everybody gets an invitation to dinner with the professor. Besides I’ve kept my promise for thirty-five years — I’m not going to break it tonight.”
Eddie was more impressed with Hardy’s restored Tudor mansion than he had been with the professor. Of course Helen was in heaven amongst the oil paintings, sculptures, and leather-bound books.
“I’m sorry,” Hardy said, leading them to his study, “that you misunderstood my invitation. It was for tomorrow night.”
“Oh,” said Eddie with a tinge of embarrassment, “that’s why nobody else is here.”
“No matter. We’ll have some more sherry and talk.” The professor emptied the crystal decanter into Helen’s glass. “Mr. Willis impresses me as a man who appreciates things other than the arts, things like a beautiful woman and a fine wine. Speaking of the latter, I see our well’s run dry. Perhaps, Mr. Willis, you’d like to select the next bottle from my wine cellar.”
Eddie rose. “Sounds good to me.”
“Feel free to browse through my library, Mrs. Willis,” said Hardy departing. “I have a splendid collection of first editions.”
She worked her way through the centuries, admiring a Shakespeare folio, pausing to examine an original Alice In Wonderland, until she came to the professor’s walnut desk. Stacked in the corner were the books from the lecture series — Oedipus Rex, An American Tragedy, For Whom the Bell Tolls, The Stranger...
Suddenly Helen felt cold. “Oh, no!” she uttered. It was the books!
They toasted each other with the pale dry Amontillado.
“How did you figure it out?” he asked, wiping the last of the white powder from his hands.
“All the books for the lecture series were about death. Don’t you see, in Macbeth the king was stabbed — that’s exactly what happened to that prosecuter. Like Oedipus’s wife, Richard Gregory was hanged. And the machine gun the other night was right out of For Whom the Bell Tolls.”
“So that’s where The Iceman got his ideas.”
“And he was planning to kill you tonight using Poe’s ‘Cask of Amontillado’ as his model.”
“If you hadn’t come down when you did, it’d be me walled up in the wine cellar.”
He poured them another sherry.
“To Unicom Enterprises and its new boss,” she toasted.
Eddie raised his glass. “To culture.”
The Final Performance
by Patrick Scaffetti
She was a legend of the screen. How could she have killed anyone? And why?
I parked my car in the circular driveway of Charlotte Page’s Oceanfront mansion at ten-fifteen on a bright, cloudless morning. As I walked to the front door, I drew in a deep breath to ease the knot in my stomach. I glanced up and noticed that the section of the house damaged by the fire had been restored. Only the darkened bricks around the white window frames offered any evidence that flames had recently gutted three rooms on the second story.
I hesitated briefly, then jabbed the doorbell. Despite my uneasiness, I was eager to learn the answer to one of the most baffling problems I’d ever encountered in over twenty-five years of police work. Seconds later, Joan Kenwood, Miss Page’s personal secretary, opened the heavy oak door. She was a slim, efficient-looking woman, and her brown eyes betrayed her startled surprise at the sight of me.
“Why, hello, Lieutenant Dawkins,” she said with a weak smile. “What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to speak with Miss Page, please.”
“About the fire?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I thought that was all settled a month ago.”
“So did I. Something has come up though.”
“Oh,” Miss Kenwood said in a tone inviting further explanation. I stared at her without speaking.
“I don’t mean to be nosy, Lieutenant, but part of my job is to filter all visitors to Miss Page. Even though she hasn’t made a film in almost thirty years, many fans still attempt to invade her privacy. And she doesn’t like to be caught... off guard, shall I say?”