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:
Martha phoned Helen, told her that she had seen the story and that her mother was not to blame herself. It wasn’t her fault.
“Oh, Martha,” her mother sobbed, “I’m so glad you called. I feel awful, just awful, and... how kind of you not to blame me when it is all my fault. Me and my big mouth at Lil’s. You’re... you’re a wonderful, wonderful girl, Martha.”
If she only knew, thought Martha as she put down the phone.
Two lonely widows on Walter’s route subscribed to the tabloid, and he saw the story as he was arranging his mail before leaving the post office. His first thought was, poor Martha, she’ll be devastated. Then he got mad. How dare they call her a “plain-looking gullible spinster,” “a hick town old maid.” How dare they?
When Walter, grim and tight-lipped, arrived at Ginny’s house at eleven forty-five, Ginny was ready. She had on a flimsy, fetching thing (which Thelma described to Emily as “outrageous”). She overplayed her hand. She had a copy of the tabloid, and as she gave Walter her letter with her right hand, she held up the tabloid close to her face, to show Walter the contrast between exotic her and spinsterish Martha.
“They didn’t treat Martha very well, did they, Walter,” she cooed treacherously. Walter answered angrily.
“No, they didn’t. And I’m going to see that she does something about it.”
At which he turned quickly and almost ran down the walk, leaving Ginny open-mouthed, thinking, what the hell was that all about. (“I’m tellin’ you, Emily,” Thelma reported, “she’s still standing there with her mouth open. What happened? How do I know. But Theda Bara just lost round eleven.”)
What that was all about was that Walter was outraged that a dear, sweet, decent, attractive woman like his Martha could be subjected to such humiliation. Of course the story was false — who believes those scandal sheets — but such vicious stories shouldn’t be allowed.
Meantime, Martha had telephoned Mike. He had also read the story, the temp having seen it in the newsstand in the lobby, recognized the name.
It took a while for him to calm her down. He kept insisting that while she was certainly treated shamefully he was sure the story wouldn’t have an adverse effect on the auction.
“In fact, in some weird way, the publicity just might generate even more interest in the manuscript. Needless to say, I’m sorry I got you into this mess.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s mine, and Mother’s. Oh my, I have to hang up. Please keep me informed.”
Mike then phoned Pete Yardley.
“They just won’t leave poor old Harry alone, will they,” Pete commented. “I hope you’re right that the story won’t hurt the auction.”
“I’m certain it won’t, Pete.”
Walter waited until he was sure Martha was home from work before calling her. Yes, the story was despicable, but he didn’t believe a word of it. And he wanted to talk to her. He would pick her up in half an hour. When she began to protest, he interrupted, “I have to talk to you, Martha. I’ve waited too long. I’ll be there soon.”
They drove up into the mountains, parked at the lookout, the town lights twinkling far below.
“But I can’t sue, Walter,” Martha said, trying not to cry, “because though the... the story isn’t true... I’ve only done some editing on Mr. Baxter’s manuscripts... oh, I can’t tell you, it’s too shameful.” She began to sob.
Walter reached over, pulled her close to him, hugged her tightly.
“Please don’t cry, Martha,” he begged. “I know the story isn’t true. Those vile tabloids shouldn’t be allowed to pillory someone as wonderful as you. Now, tell me, what can’t you tell me?”
Between muffled sobs she told him the whole sordid tale. Her agreeing to disobey Harry Baxter, give Mike Wilson Ebb and Flow, the manuscript box falling into the creek, everything lost. Then plunging deeper into crime — prevailing upon Mike Wilson to take her novel, pretend it was an early work of Harry Baxter’s.
“There,” she finished, “there’s the whole shameful, terrible tale. Now am I still wonderful?”
Walter, momentarily stunned, hugged her tighter, asked, “You gave up the novel on which you’ve worked for years? Why, why?”
“Can’t you guess?” the poor girl wailed. “I did it to get the money to buy Mother a condo in Florida. I... I didn’t want to lose you to... to that... that creature. Now, what do you think of me?”
“Oh, Martha, Martha,” he exclaimed, hugging her even tighter — she could barely breathe — “I’m not worthy of such an enormous sacrifice. Oh you poor dear girl. We’ll go right to my house and call this Mike Wilson, tell him it’s all off. Oh, Martha, I love you. Will you marry me?”
“Oh, Walter, oh, Walter,” she managed, “but what about Mother?”
“She can live with us. I’ll add a mother-in-law apartment to the house. I should have asked you to marry me long ago.”
That did it. Martha, squealing, whimpering, sobbing, even giggling part of the time, rained passionate kisses on her wonderful mailman. He did his part.
They didn’t call Mike Wilson. Martha explained that Mike couldn’t stay in business unless he got the commission on the sale of Appalachian Elegy. After all, she had given her word.
The story in the tabloid didn’t hurt Appalachian Elegy. It went for six and a half million dollars to an old-line publisher, Meadows & Berkshire. Scott Henry went with it, Mike having hinted before the auction that it would be to the publisher’s benefit to hire Scott, who was the editor of Baxter’s three bestsellers.
In early June the will was read. Those invited — each finding it hard to believe — were Mike Wilson, Scott Henry, Martha Ainsley, Thomas Reardon, and Harriet Sloan Larkin-Phillips, the eighty-three-year-old president of the Outlaw Whaling Society.
After taxes, lawyers’ fees, Mike Wilson’s commission, the estate was valued at four million eight hundred fifty thousand dollars, the sale of Appalachian Elegy augmented by a large insurance policy on the Connecticut house (the policy paid off the mortgages and left a substantial sum for the estate).
The money was divided as follows: fifty thousand to Mike Wilson; fifty thousand to Scott Henry; fifty thousand to Martha Ainsley; two million to The Media’s Conscience; the balance — two million seven hundred thousand — to the Outlaw Whaling Society.
After the reading of the will, the stunned beneficiaries went their separate ways while unanimously agreeing that poor Harry Baxter was a genuine enigma.
Walter didn’t have to add a mother-in-law apartment. Steve Zablonsky came flying up from the South and swooped up his ecstatic old flame. They were married in Las Vegas, honeymooned in Hawaii; old flames rekindling the fires of youth.
Martha, a lovely bride, and Walter, a handsome groom, were married in August in a quiet wedding at St. Mark’s. They raced off to Great Britain, honey-mooned in Literary Britain. They toured Hardy’s Wessex, visited his birthplace and grave, walked the very same footpaths (still existing) where Tess and Jude, and Bathsheba once walked.
They spent enchanting hours in Jane Austen’s house at Chawton — now a museum — still with the creaky door’s warning that someone was coming, giving her time to hide her papers. They were spellbound and teary-eyed at Haworth Parsonage where the poor bronchial Brontës, taking turns coughing, scribbled away while wrapped in shawls and robes as the wild winds howled across the moors and the ink froze in the inkwells.