Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 43, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1998
- Автор: Alexander Gary, Crawford Dan
- Год: 1998
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines/Crosstown Publications
- ISBN: ISSN: 0002-5224
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 43, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1998». Краткое содержание книги:
“My help? I... oh, Mr. Henderson is coming. I’ll have to phone back when I can.”
Okay, thought Mike, I’ve laid the groundwork. But can I really expect our Martha, irreproachable smalltown spinster whom I have come to know from many phone conversations as an upright, highly principled person, to disobey Harry? Wait a minute, haven’t Scott Henry — the poor bastard, still out of work — and I talked about how Martha Ainsley has changed over the years? Haven’t we noticed that she’s become more confident, less diffident? And hasn’t she hinted that Baxter has never appreciated the enormous amount of work she’s done on his manuscripts?
But what does that mean? Do I have the guts to offer that upstanding woman a bribe to disobey Baxter? Hell, I’ll do whatever I have to do. I’ll steal Ebb and Flow if I have to.
An hour later, Martha called back.
“You said you would need my help, Mr. Wilson.”
Yes, he told her, he would. If she disobeyed Baxter and sent everything to Mike, Baxter would have to sue, Mike said. That could take months. And Baxter needed money.
“He’s about broke from his divorces, and he’s been losing pretty heavily in Atlantic City, but that’s beside the point. What he’s attempting is simply rotten. He owes me a lot. And I’m not talking about money.”
“I know what you mean, Mr. Wilson,” Martha said, still very upset. “I know all about it from the tabloids. You’ve always been a staunch friend. But, well, I have a confession to make.”
“Oh?”
In a halting voice Martha confessed that she had bed to Baxter.
“I’ll actually be finished with the manuscript on Sunday, not Monday.” She stopped. Silence.
Mike waited.
“Go on, Martha,” he said finally. “I’m sure you had a good reason for doing what you did.”
“Oh, this is terrible, just terrible,” she said. “I lied because... because I wanted time to think. I am... am... undergoing a crisis, and I immediately knew Mr. Baxter was doing this to deprive you of your commission. And you have always been very generous and supportive. I’m so ashamed.”
“Don’t be; hell, we all have crises. I have one every month — forty-five hundred dollars in alimony. Come on, tell me, maybe I can help.”
More silence. Mike kept quiet, wondering what kind of a crisis she was undergoing. Still silence. Mike had to say something.
“Damn it, Martha, almost any crisis can be overcome. Come on, what is it?”
“You... you remember my telling you that Mother lives with me. I mean we five together. She’s always wanted to five in Florida, and I’ve been trying for years to accumulate enough money to buy her a condo there. But that’s not the real reason. Anyway, I very nearly committed blackmail. I nearly told Mr. Baxter that unless he paid me a certain sum I would mail Ebb and Flow to you. Then I thought that would be unfair to you, to say nothing of committing a crime. You... you must think I’m an awful person.”
“No, no, I do not, Martha,” exclaimed Mike. He was momentarily stunned but recovered quickly. “Listen. Forget about Baxter. I’ll be happy to give you whatever you need to buy the condo for your mother. But we have to talk. I’ll come to Hillsdale tomorrow night, and we’ll get this settled.”
“No, no, you can’t come tomorrow. Mother mustn’t know about this. She’s been talking at the local beauty parlor — it’s been my fault for having complained to her about the extra work I’ve always done on Mr. Baxter’s manuscripts — and she’s been exaggerating. Oh, I don’t know what to do. Maybe... well, could you come on Monday evening? That’s her bin-go night at the Knights of Columbus. She never misses.”
Wow, thought Mike, breathing a huge sigh of relief. Maybe it’ll work out.
“Monday’s fine,” he hastened to say. After he had taken down the directions, he read them back to her.
“Yes, that’s right. It’s a little less than an hour from the Pittsburgh airport. And please don’t come to the house before seven thirty.”
Mike promised. And yes, he understood her wanting him to park four blocks down the street, near the little park (“The neighbors are nice, but this is a gossipy little town.”).
Mike was about to say goodbye when Martha hurriedly said, “But, Mr. Wilson, my not giving Ebb and Flow to Mr. Baxter — he is the rightful owner, isn’t he? Couldn’t that be construed as... well, larceny, I guess?”
Oh boy, Mike thought. And just when the worst seemed over.
“It might,” he said cautiously, “but honestly, Martha, Baxter isn’t going to press charges. As I said, he’s in real financial trouble. He even has two mortgages on his Connecticut house, the poor bastard. Once I tell him that I have Ebb and Flow and that I’m going to auction it and collect my legitimate commission he’ll rant and rave but he’ll give in. He can’t afford not to.”
“But that’s just what I had thought of doing,” said Martha. “I mean, isn’t that blackmail? Oh, Mr. Wilson, as much as I want to... to buy Mother the condo, I don’t think I can disobey Mr. Baxter. It’s not only... well, wrong, but it’s too risky. I... oh, someone’s coming.”
“I’ll see you Monday evening,” Mike managed before she hung up. Damn it, he thought, for a while it looked good. Somehow, though, I have to convince her to give me Ebb and Flow. I have to.
Which she did. She also gave him Appalachian Elegy to try to sell. An incident on Saturday, April thirteenth, had tilted the scale.
It was a dreary, dank, dismal, drizzly day with a cold wind howling and black clouds darkening the sky. Seventh heaven at 146 Chestnut Street seemed an unlikely place for a burst of poetry. Yet Walter, hunched against the wind, rain dripping from his slicker, took the letter from Martha, smiled that dear, shy, boyish smile, and said, “It must have been this kind of day in England, Martha, when Eliot wrote that ‘April is the cruelest month.’ ”
Poor Martha, she barely restrained herself from leaping at him and clutching him, the mailbag, and the dripping slicker in a passionate embrace. But she didn’t leap, she suddenly remembered an April poem and burst out passionately, “Oh, but remember Browning, Walter...
She stopped, blushed.
Oh, what a wonderful girl, thought Walter as he finished the verse:
He stopped suddenly, looked embarrassed.
“ ‘In England — now!’ ” finished Martha.
She almost was in tears when Walter turned to go, stopped, turned toward her, and blurted out, “Oh, Martha, you’re wonderful.”
Then he fled, and neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night, nor the constant, agonizing knowledge that he would have to make a decision very soon, stayed the faithful carrier from the swift completion of his appointed rounds.
Martha stood transfixed, unable to move, as the tears came. Then she ran from the porch, down the walk, stopped at the gate, coat flapping in the wind, rain pelting her, shouted as loud as she could as the faithful carrier opened the gate two houses down, “You are too, Walter, you are wonderful too.”
Naturally the neighbors on either side — both retired couples — witnessed this strange, un-Martha-like behavior and telephoned one another. How exciting, they agreed.