Alfred Hitchcock’s A Hangman’s Dozen
- Автор: Артур Роберт, Брэдбери Рэй Дуглас
- Год: 1962
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Publishing
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Alfred Hitchcock’s A Hangman’s Dozen». Краткое содержание книги:
The Luger was a firm metal reassurance against his belly.
The gun had been given to him in the good days, in Vienna, by an admirer. In the good days, there had been many admirers, and many gifts. He could remember the good days. The good days would sometimes come back to him with fiercely sweet nostalgia, engulfing him in waves and waves of painful memories. He could remember the lights, and the applause, and...
“Good morning, Nick.”
The voice, the hated voice.
He stopped abruptly. “Good morning, Mr. Atkins,” he said.
Atkins was smiling. The smile was a thin curl on his narrow face, a thin bloodless curl beneath the ridiculously tenuous mustache on the cleaving edge of the hatchet face. The manager’s hair was black, artfully combed to conceal a balding patch. He wore a gray pin-stripe suit. Like a caricature of all store managers everywhere, he wore a carnation in his buttonhole. He continued smiling. The smile was infuriating.
“Ready for the last act?” he asked.
“Yes, Mr. Atkins.”
“It is the last act, isn’t it, Nick?” Atkins asked, smiling. “Final curtain comes down today, doesn’t it? All over after today. Everything reverts back to normal after today.”
“Yes, Mr. Atkins,” he said. “Today is the last act.”
“But no curtain calls, eh, Nick?”
His name was not Nick. His name was Randolph Blair, a name that had blazed across the theater marquees of four continents. Atkins knew this, and had probably known it the day he’d hired him. He knew it, and so the “Nick” was an additional barb, a reminder of his current status, a sledgehammer subtlety that shouted, “Lo, how the mighty have fallen!”
“My name is not Nick,” he said flatly.
Atkins snapped his fingers. “That’s right, isn’t it? I keep forgetting. What is it again? Randolph Something? Clair? Flair? Shmair? What is your name, Nick?”
“My name is Randolph Blair,” he said. He fancied he said it with great dignity. He fancied he said it the way Hamlet would have announced that he was Prince of Denmark. He could remember the good days when the name Randolph Blair was the magic key to a thousand cities. He could remember hotel clerks with fluttering hands, maître d’s hovering, young girls pulling at his clothing, even telephone operators suddenly growing respectful when they heard the name. Randolph Blair. In his mind, the name was spelled in lights. Randolph Blair. The lights suddenly flickered, and then dimmed. He felt the steel outline of the Luger against his belly. He smiled thinly.
“You know my name, don’t you, Mr. Atkins?”
“Yes,” Atkins said. “I know your name. I hear it sometimes.”
His interest was suddenly piqued. “Do you?” he asked.
“Yes. I hear people ask, every now and then, ‘Say, whatever happened to Randolph Blair?’ I know your name.”
He felt Atkins’ dart pierce his throat, felt the poison spread into his bloodstream. Whatever happened to Randolph Blair? A comedian had used the line on television not two weeks before, bringing down the house. Randolph Blair, the ever-popular Randolph Blair. A nothing now, a nobody, a joke for a television comic. A forgotten name, a forgotten face. But Atkins would remember. For eternity he would remember Randolph Blair’s name and the face and terrible power.
“Don’t...” he started, and then stopped abruptly.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t... don’t push me too far, Mr. Atkins.”
“Push you, Nick?” Atkins asked innocently.
“Stop that ‘Nick’ business!”
“Excuse me, Mr. Blair,” Atkins said. “Excuse me. I forgot who I was talking to. I thought I was talking to an old drunk who’d managed to land himself a temporary job...”
“Stop it!”
“... for a few weeks. I forgot I was talking to Randolph Blair, the Randolph Blair, the biggest lush in...”
“I’m not a drunk!” he shouted.
“You’re a drunk, all right,” Atkins said. “Don’t tell me about drunks. My father was one. A falling-down drunk. A screaming, hysterical drunk. I grew up with it, Nick. I watched the old man fight his imaginary monsters, killing my mother inch by inch. So don’t tell me about drunks. Even if the newspapers hadn’t announced your drunkenness to the world. I’d have spotted you as being a lush.”
“Why’d you hire me?” he asked.
“There was a job to be filled, and I thought you could fill it.”
“You hired me so you could needle me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Atkins said.
“You made a mistake. You’re needling the wrong person.”
“Am I?” Atkins asked blandly. “Are you one of these tough drunks? Aggressive? My father was a tough drunk in the beginning. He could lick any man in the house. The only thing he couldn’t lick was the bottle. When things began crawling out of the walls, he wasn’t so tough. He was a screaming, crying baby then, running to my mother’s arms. Are you a tough drunk, Nick? Are you?”
“I’m not a drunk!” he said. “I haven’t touched a drop since I got this job. You know that!”
“Why? Afraid it would hurt your performance?” Atkins laughed harshly. “That never seemed to bother you in the old days.”
“Things are different,” he said. “I want... I want to make a comeback. I... I took this job because... I wanted the feel again, the feel of working. You shouldn’t needle me. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Me? Needle you? Now, Nick, Nick, don’t be silly. I gave you the job, didn’t I? Out of all the other applicants, I chose you. So why should I needle you? That’s silly, Nick.”
“I’ve done a good job,” he said, hoping Atkins would say the right thing, the right word, wanting him to say the words that would crush the hatred. “You know I’ve done a good job.”
“Have you?” Atkins asked. “I think you’ve done a lousy job, Nick. As a matter of fact, I think you always did a lousy job. I think you were one of the worst actors who ever crossed a stage.”
And in that moment, Atkins signed his own death warrant.
All that day, as he listened to stupid requests and questions, as he sat in his chair and the countless faces pressed toward him, he thought of killing Atkins. He did his job automatically, presenting his smiling face to the public, but his mind was concerned only with the mechanics of killing Atkins.
It was something like learning a part.
Over and over again, he rehearsed each step in his mind. The store would close at five tonight. The employees would be anxious to get home to their families. This had been a trying, harrowing few weeks, and tonight it would be over, and the employees would rush into the streets and into the subways and home to waiting loved ones. A desperate wave of rushing self-pity flooded over him. Who are my loved ones? he asked silently. Who is waiting for me tonight?
Someone was talking to him. He looked down, nodding.
“Yes, yes,” he said mechanically. “And what else?”
The person kept talking. He half-listened, nodding all the while, smiling, smiling.
There had been many loved ones in the good days. Women, more women than he could count. Rich women, and young women, and jaded women, and fresh young girls. Where had he been ten years ago at this time? California? Yes, of course, the picture deal. How strange it had seemed to be in a land of sunshine at that time of the year. And he had blown the picture. He had not wanted to, he had not wanted to at all. But he’d been hopelessly drunk for... how many days? And you can’t shoot a picture when the star doesn’t come to the set.