The Talmage Powell Crime MEGAPACK™: 20 Classic Mysteries!
- Автор: Пауэлл Тэлмидж
- Год: 2015
- Язык: английский
- Год: Wildside Press
- ISBN: 9781479406111
- Жанр: Криминальные детективы
Электронная книга - «The Talmage Powell Crime MEGAPACK™: 20 Classic Mysteries!». Краткое содержание книги:
She moved restlessly in the car seat “You’ve got something on your mind, Nick.”
“Yes, I have. You’re a very beautiful woman.”
“Thank you.”
“One who’d do most anything for enough money.”
“Now wait a—”
“I’m not being critical,” I broke in. “Only analytical. By the way, why did you try to call Isherwood shortly before the time your husband was killed?”
“I didn’t, Nick. Why are you asking me—”
“I thought so,” I said. “You see, a call was placed from your apartment to Isherwood’s residence. Only it was Will calling, wasn’t it? You didn’t know he’d made that call, did you? But now I can wise you up. He was in another room, using the phone a good two hours after the time you said he’d left the apartment. The call places him in the apartment very close to the time of his death. Why’d you want us to think he’d left earlier — unless he was in the apartment up to and including the time of his death?”
Her lips seemed to redden. The shift of color was actually in her face, not her lips. “Nick! What are you saying?”
“That you had motive. He was about to throw you out, separate you from all that nice money, wasn’t he?”
“What makes you think I’d even considered killing—”
“First thing started me wondering was the matter of the car. Kilgo Street is a long way from your neighborhood. If Will had driven to Kilgo and got himself bumped off, why hasn’t his car been found in that vicinity? The kid in jail hocked only an unregistered gun, he didn’t peddle a hot car.
“When you’ve been a cop a long time, you get to wondering how a thing might have happened, if a detail strikes you wrong. You wonder if a beautiful woman gets herself a little gun as a last resort. You wonder if she, finally, feels she has to use it. You wonder if she has sneaked her dead husband down the service elevator from their swank apartment, driven him all the way to a crummy place like Kilgo Street You wonder if she stripped him of money there to make it appear he’d been robbed. You wonder if she then drove herself home, her plan completed, satisfied that nothing could possibly connect her with a dump like Kilgo Street and the death of her husband.”
“Nick, honestly, how could I, a woman—”
“Looked pretty good, didn’t it the whole plan? But you’re strong, athletic, well-kept, and he was a small man. There was a service elevator to help get him downstairs. It was late at night. You envisioned little risk of being seen, and you weren’t. The whole setup looked great and you saw no reason why you couldn’t carry it off.”
She hesitated a long time before she spoke. “Nick, you can’t prove any of this...”
“I’m in charge of the case. I can prove that kid guilty, if I want to. I got the power to close this case, but quick. On the other hand, there’s a limited number of places where you can buy an unregistered gun. I know these places. I know how to make people talk. Believe me, baby, I can make them talk when I want to. If I took you to those places one by one, I’m sure I’d get an identification sooner or later. Of you. As the buyer of an unregistered gun.”
“Nick—”
“Shall we start? Pay a call on one of those places?”
“Nick, please...
“You killed him,” I said.
“No, Nick.”
“Okay. Let’s get started on this detail of a gun.”
“Nick, you can’t do this to me!”
“You killed him,” I repeated.
She slid toward me. “Nick,” she said, “it was self defense. I swear it!”
“Self defense — with the purchase of the gun a prior act?”
She put her arms around me. I felt her shiver. “Nick, will you give me a break?”
“I guess that’ll do it,” I said. I held her away briefly and reached under the seat I clicked off the switch of the compact, portable, battery-powered tape recorder. Her eyes got large as she watched me put the tape carefully in my inside coat pocket
“You tricked me,” she said “You didn’t know—”
“I suspected,” I said. “But I needed proof. Now I’ve got it. It’s the finest insurance I can think of.”
“Insurance, Nick?”
“Sure. I’ll see that that tape’s put in a safe place and fix things so it’ll reach the right people — if anything ever happens to me.”
She began to understand.
“You,” I said, “are a beautiful woman worth six or seven million dollars. What’s my future on the cops compared to that? You’ll mourn, and I’ll work awhile before I resign. For appearances’ sake.” Her eyes showed that her mind made a lightning fast survey of the situation. She saw no way out. And so, recognizing the inevitable, she accepted it.
She linked her arm in mine and rested her head on my shoulder. “You’re right, Nick darling. We must think of appearances, mustn’t we?”
Old Man Emmons
Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, February 1962.
The feeble outcry from the old man’s bedroom penetrated Charlie Collins’ slumber. His senses swam back to consciousness. Then a light flashed on and he was aware that Laura was getting out of the twin bed next to his.
“I thought I heard father,” she said.
“I heard something myself.”
They threw back covers, slipped into robes, and hurried to the bedroom the old man had wanted when he came to live with them, the corner bedroom, the one with lots of windows, cross ventilation.
The old man’s bed was empty. He had made his way into the adjoining bathroom. He seemed to be through with being sick, and stood shivering.
Charlie and Laura rushed to him.
“Father,” Laura said, “you should have called us.”
“I did. You wouldn’t answer,” the old man said accusingly.
“We came the second we woke,” Charlie said.
The old man fumbled for the drinking glass in the porcelain rack beside the medicine cabinet. Charlie grabbed the glass, rinsed it, filled it with water.
The old man washed his mouth out, gargled noisily, his mouth a sunken, wrinkled hole in his face. His skin held a grayish cast. A bundle of dried sticks inside the old-fashioned nightgown, the old man was a terrifyingly cadaverous comment on the mortality of human flesh.
“I’ll get the doctor,” Laura said.
“I don’t want the doctor,” the old man said, pulling away from them belligerently and shuffling toward his own bed, across the room.
“It must have been those pickles at dinner,” Charlie said.
“I’ve eaten pickles before! I know what made me sick!”
Charlie and Laura looked at each other, then at the old man wavering toward the bed.
“What, sir?” Charlie asked.
“I know,” the old man said ominously. “I got a good stomach. I don’t get sick easy. I know what caused it.”
The old man crawled into bed and pulled the covers over his head. Laura touched Charlie’s arm. They slipped out of the room. In the hallway, she whispered, “You can’t do much with him when he sets his mind this way.”
“How about the doctor?”
“I’m sure he’s all right, Charlie. It was those pickles. You go on back to bed. You’ve got to work tomorrow — today. I’ll listen for him.”
Charlie didn’t think he would get back to sleep. He lay and smoked, thinking of Laura in the chair she’d drawn close to her father’s door.
He’d thought he had a full awareness of the circumstances when he married Laura. An only child, she’d cared for her father a long time, since the death of her mother. She’d explained that she wanted to keep her father with her, and Charlie had said okay. It wasn’t, after all, as if they were a pair of teenagers running away to get married. Both were in their thirties.