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:
German suddenly had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. That couldn’t be. He was determined to find Leonard and do what he had intended. He needed to do this for his own sanity. He couldn’t bear to breathe the same air as the man who had killed his Angelina.
Harlem Hospital’s rectangular edifice sprang into the night sky. German walked through the doors adjacent to the emergency entrance and was obscured by its perpetual organized chaos. He was directed to Leonard Royce’s room and stood outside his door steeling himself for what he knew he must do.
He stepped inside with his hand in his coat pocket and the pistol firmly in his grip. He was startled by what he saw. Leonard Royce lay still, with his eyes closed as if unaware of German’s entry. His once muscular frame had become an emaciated shell. His skin, devoid of its subcutaneous tissue, had become only a covering for his skull.
German found it difficult to look at Leonard. He stood at the bedside and pointed the pistol at Leonard’s head. Nothing mattered anymore except the need to stop the pain that raged inside of him. Only the cessation of Leonard’s breathing could satisfy the anger he felt.
German’s finger pressured the trigger. He was surprised at how easy it seemed to be.
Royce’s eyes suddenly opened, and the unexpected development momentarily unnerved German. His finger relaxed as he observed Leonard’s labored breathing. He appeared to be straining to focus on German. His eyes shifted from German to the gun. His lips began to tremble as he managed a hoarse whisper.
“I never meant to hurt her.”
The big man began to cry, but it meant nothing to German. German already had blood on his hands, but it was the wrong blood. He could see the scenario unfold in his mind. Royce, with all of his personal failures, had come to covet acquisitions as symbols of his success. Angelina was elegantly beautiful — too beautiful to waste her life with a mere waiter. She was the kind of woman Royce would think deserved to be with him.
Angelina would have been surprised by his presence at her door, but his familiarity would have provided her with enough comfort to let him in. She would have been disgusted and repulsed by his attempts to approach her. She would have pushed him away, fought him.
German couldn’t bear the thoughts anymore. He jerked the weapon back toward Leonard’s head. Waxman had been right. The first time was the most difficult.
“I always wanted to go back home to Jamaica.”
Leonard’s voice was barely discernible. German’s hand trembled as a moment of indecision crept back into his mind.
He was looking at a breathing dead man — a living skeleton. A bullet in the head would be a blessing, and why should Leonard have that? This slow, agonizing death was exactly what he deserved. What could be any better than Leonard Royce dying by inches in the stench of his own excrement? He pulled the gun away and slipped it back into his pocket.
As he backed toward the door he imagined he could see the disappointment in Leonard’s eyes. Death would not be his rescuer today. There was a certain satisfaction in that.
“Excuse me, are you a relative?”
A physician with a white smock approached him as he left the room.
“Uh... yes, a cousin,” German lied quickly.
The doctor pulled him to the side and in a sympathetic voice informed him of the hopelessness of Leonard’s condition. He was dying of metastatic thyroid cancer. Like a number of others who had frequented the tobacco shop, he had suffered from repeated exposure from a radiation source that had been hidden on an upper floor. Since it had been stored in crates of tobacco products, the cigars Leonard liked to smoke were contaminated as well.
German walked out of the rear of the hospital and into the Harlem night. He walked past his apartment and past a hundred dark streets. He kept walking. He walked until he saw the sun being reborn on the eastern horizon. It was a beacon, like the spirit of Angelina leading him to a new beginning.
School for Burglars
by Melodie Campbell
He was a well-dressed burglar, Marge had to admit. The black turtleneck fit his lean body in a manner most Italian, and the jeans were unmistakably Gap. He was clean shaven, dark haired, and wore a thin black mask à la Zorro. Not a bad look at all, she mused, although on the whole, damned inconvenient at the moment.
Marge leaned against the kitchen doorframe and took a sip from her mug. He must be okay at the break-and-enter part, as Max hadn’t heard a thing. Well, if Max wouldn’t growl, she could.
“What do you want?” she said, drawling.
The burglar looked up with a start. A shiny black pistol appeared in his hand.
“Your money,” he said in a low voice.
Marge laughed. “My money? You want my money? You and a thousand others, Zorro. Take a number and get in line.” This was too much. As if the bank report hadn’t been enough for one day. What else could bloody well happen...
Marge eyed the intruder intently. Poor kid, he looked confused; this obviously hadn’t been a situation covered in course 101 at the school for burglary. Marge watched him shift from one foot to the other, while trying to steady the gun.
She nodded to it. “Where’d you get the gun?”
The burglar started. “Wot?”
“The black shiny thing in your hand. Where’d you get it?”
He looked down at the weapon. “This guy from Toronto...”
Marge snorted. “You kids, these days. Spoiled rotten. In my day, we had to go to Buffalo.” Marge took another sip. “Is it loaded?”
“Of course.”
“Then will you do me a favor? Can you aim for that chartreuse vase over there?” She pointed to a shelf in the adjoining dining room. “Ghastly thing. My mother-in-law gave it to me. Please shoot it.”
“No!”
“Then give it to me, and I’ll shoot it.” Marge set her mug down on the faded wood-grain countertop and reached for the pistol.
“Christ, no!” He appeared aghast. “It’ll make a noise!”
“Then why do you carry it if you don’t want to make a noise?”
The burglar ran a shaky left hand through his hair. “To scare you.”
“Oh,” Marge said carelessly. “Want some coffee? It’s Starbuck’s.” She reached for the pot on the counter. The burglar yelped and dropped the gun. Both hands shot up to protect his face, and just as swiftly, Marge moved forward to pick up the firearm. She held it up in her right hand and peered down the sights.
“Christ, are you crazy?” The man in black peeked through fingers.
“Crazy?” Marge looked up, startled. “Am I crazy? You’re the one who comes bursting in here with a gun you don’t even have the decency to use, asking me for money. And you think I’m crazy? Have you looked at this place? Is there anything here you’d want?”
She marched into the dining room, signaling with the gun for the intruder to follow. An ancient bulldog lay sleeping in the sun in front of the bay window. He opened one eye, then closed it and rolled over.
Marge grabbed a bowl off the fireplace mantel with one hand. “Here. Like this? Take it. I hate it. Want the ashtray? It’s ugly.” She shoved the bowl into the burglar’s arms.
“Want this picture?” Her free hand reached for it. “It’s my husband. He’s a bum. Mother was right. Don’t you hate it when your mother’s right? You don’t want it? No? Neither do I.” Marge threw the framed photo on the hardwood and stomped on it. The glass made a pretty bell-tinkle sound.
“Lady, you’re nuts!” He put the bowl carefully down on the dining table and tried to inch his way back to the kitchen. The dog lifted his head and growled. All movement stopped.