Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 131, No. 5. Whole No. 801, May 2008
- Автор: Блок Лоуренс, Пикард Нэнси
- Год: 2008
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 131, No. 5. Whole No. 801, May 2008». Краткое содержание книги:
“And your locks? Have you changed your locks?”
“Well, I have now, Joe. But that’s a little late to help.”
Joe nodded, as a change from shaking his head. There’d been a crime, and Tom seemed certain he’d identified the culprit. But it wasn’t clear what Joe was expected to do about it.
Tom said, “That was my favourite shirt, too. Bought it in Italy. It’s not like I can just pop out and buy another.”
“It’s not... salvageable? No, sorry, forget I spoke. Of course it’s not.”
Tom leaned forward. His unlit cigarette jammed meaning into every syllable. “She blocked the sewer pipe with it, Joe. First I knew about it, the toilet’s backing up. ‘Course it’s not bloody salvageable.”
“Would you like coffee? Tea?”
“Neither. Not right now.”
“You’re upset, yes. Your shirt and all the rest, plus the sense of being invaded. I can see you’d want to talk to somebody about it.”
“But why you.”
“That’s what I was wondering, Tom, yes. Why me?”
So Tom told him.
A homeless man made his pitch by an entrance to the Covered Market: tea towel in front of him for contributions to his well-being, he sat crosslegged, back to the wall, face obscured by a hood. A young Alsatian lay next to him, its head on his knee. Lots of homeless people — and there were lots; they seemed to multiply faster than any housing shortage could account for — lots of them had dogs, Joe had noticed, which was a detail which, if not a silver lining, at least provided a little insulation, he liked to think. There was comfort in knowing that no matter how hard you’d fallen, love was still available. He’d said as much to Zoe once, and she’d looked at him as if he were mad, which wasn’t an unusual expression for Zoe.
“They don’t keep dogs for something to love, Joe. They keep dogs so they’ve something to shout at. Something they can get angry with, which just has to sit and take it.”
Which might or might not have been true, but one thing was certain: Having heard it said, Joe would never look at a homeless man and his dog in quite the same way again.
“The glass is always half empty, isn’t it, Zoe?” he’d said sadly.
“No, the glass is cracked,” she’d told him. “And there’s no way I’m drinking from a cracked glass.”
Anyway, the dog he was looking at was the same he’d seen yesterday, because this was the homeless guy’s regular hangout, and this particular entrance to Oxford’s Covered Market was right by the doorway to Tessa Greenlaw’s gym. Or the gym Tessa Greenlaw was a member of. Joe had spent long enough watching it to make such pointless clarifications to himself, as if somewhere inside his own head was a not entirely bright third party, in constant need of updating. Tessa Greenlaw came here once her workday was done, or had done so both days Joe had been following her. Surveilling, he amended. “Following” had a stalkerish air. And yesterday, after leaving, she’d done nothing more complicated than head straight home, giving Joe a tricky moment when he’d found himself boarding the same bus — but it had been crowded, and he’d sat where she couldn’t see his face, and besides, they’d only encountered each other once, months ago. Chances were, all she’d have would be one of those vague city moments at the sight of a face from a forgotten context. And if that had happened, she hadn’t let on.
Tonight, though, there was no rush for the bus. Instead, on leaving the gym Tessa Greenlaw headed south, down St. Aldate’s. Giving her time to get ahead, Joe peeled himself from his hiding place, thought for a moment about popping over the road to slip a quid to the boy with the dog, decided he didn’t have time, and set off in Tessa’s wake.
It was hardly a surprise. How many places could she have been headed? Well, okay, she could have been going anywhere — but a short distance down St. Aldate’s, then a left turn off the main road, and what you reached was the building that housed Tom Parker’s language school.
This wasn’t a busy thoroughfare. Joe couldn’t have followed Tessa along it without being spotted. But opposite the lane’s entrance, on St. Aldate’s itself, was a bench for the weary, from which Joe had a clear view of Tessa Greenlaw coming to a halt by the language school; of Tessa checking her watch, then leaning against the wall of the building opposite, looking up at the second-floor window where Tom had his office.
Joe spread his newspaper over his knees, in case Tessa noticed him.
He timed it at eleven minutes. Eleven minutes before Tom Parker came out. During this time, Tessa grew restless; checked her watch a number of times; fiddled through her bag for something she didn’t find. She was wearing the same glasses Joe had admired the first time he’d met her — only time, he amended; you couldn’t call this “meeting” — and her hair was shorter, but what he mostly noticed was that she seemed, what might the word be — frazzled? Yes: She seemed frazzled. As if things were not going her way lately, and the directions they had chosen instead were stretching her thin... Zoe would probably point out that Tessa had just been to the gym, which might account for it. But stilclass="underline" She looked frazzled.
Joe was staring straight at her when she looked his way. He dropped his eyes to the newspaper, made a bit of a thing about turning a page. When he risked another glance, Tom was in the lane, too.
“You saw?”
“I saw, yes.”
“That’s the fourth time. No, fifth. She’s mad, Joe. Complete mentalist.”
“Mentalist.” Joe wasn’t sure he’d encountered the term. “Certainly, she does not give the impression of being, ah, stable.”
He hadn’t been able to hear everything, but that she’d been shouting was clear enough. Bastard had floated Joe’s way. And all the while Tom had been making soothing gestures in the air; smiling softly but never quite touching her, as if Tessa were a cornered animal in spitting mood, unclear of its own best choices. When he’d reached at last for her sleeve she’d pulled her arm away angrily and stormed down the lane, away from Joe. Slowly, he’d folded his newspaper and stood. When Tom reached him, he led the way to the bar without a word.
Now he said, “And has there been any pattern, any particular sequence to the way in which she comes and, ah, lurks outside your workplace?”
“I’m not sure. Would it make a difference?”
“Probably not,” Joe admitted.
“You’re thinking some kind of PMT thing?”
Uncomfortable with this direction, Joe shook his head. “Not really.” Truth was, he had no idea what questions to ask, or what answers would help. Insights into the female psyche weren’t his specialty. And if he’d ever claimed them to be, it wasn’t like the notion would withstand five minutes of Zoe’s scrutiny. “Did you confront her about her invasion of your property?”
“Did she give the impression of being up for a discussion?”
“I couldn’t hear,” Joe explained. “Traffic. Distance. Plus, she was shouting and you were speaking softly. Neither was an ideal volume.”
“Well, trust me, she was in no mood for answering questions. More than likely, she’d find a way of blaming it on me, anyway. You had much to do with madwomen, Joe?”
Loyally, Joe denied it.
“Lucky you.”
She’d looked frazzled, he remembered. It wasn’t such a stretch to colour her mad. “What was she saying?”
Tom Palmer ran a hand through his hair: a boyish gesture, not without charm. “That we belong together. That I was just being stupid, and should come to my senses. That I should come to my senses.” He shook his head in wonderment. “A bloody baby. We’re not even in a relationship, for God’s sake.”