The Third Talmage Powell Crime MEGAPACK™: 25 Classic Mysteries
- Автор: Пауэлл Тэлмидж
- Год: 2020
- Язык: английский
- Год: Wildside Press LLC
- Жанр: Криминальные детективы
Электронная книга - «The Third Talmage Powell Crime MEGAPACK™: 25 Classic Mysteries». Краткое содержание книги:
He could hear Bart’s voice before he stepped again into the house. Bart was cursing, railing at her because of some money she’d spent a week ago.
Lonnie stepped into the kitchen.
He heard her say, “Bart, please...”
And then he heard Bart slap her. Lonnie could have taken the blow without feeling it very much. But when she took it, Lonnie flinched.
She cried out softly as Bart slapped her again. Lonnie sucked in his breath as if he’d been hit hard in the stomach. A burning sensation filled his chest.
He had dried the long, thin butcher knife when he’d washed the dishes and put the knife in the wall rack. His hand went out. He took the knife down.
He crossed the kitchen and jerked open the door to the living room.
Bart was standing in the middle of the room taking the last drink from his bottle. He could barely keep on his feet. Louise was half sprawled on the wicker settee, holding her cheek and crying bitterly.
Both of them turned toward the noise of Lonnie’s sudden entry.
Bart saw the long, shinning length of the butcher knife and his eyes were suddenly, coldly sober. He instinctively backed away from Lonnie and the knife.
Lonnie advanced with a heavy stride, the knife held at his belt pointing forward.
Bart stood slack-jawed, his knees backed hard against the easy-chair. “What do you want?”
“You can’t hit her,” Lonnie said. “I won’t let you hit her anymore.” He moved closer to Bart.
“You’re crazy!” Bart shouted.
“No. I’m just going to stop you from hitting her again.” He came a step closer, the knife now held out from his body.
Louise had stopped crying. She looked with terror from Bart to Lonnie, her eyes wide and staring. She was fascinated by the flashing knife in Lonnie’s hand.
“You keep away from me! You got no business interfering. She’s my wife; I can do with her like I please!” He was shouting again. The bottle fell from his nerveless hand with a crash, but he didn’t even look down.
“You’ve been keeping her here like she was in prison. I’m just going to stop you, that’s all.”
Bart was going to say something, but the knife was quicker. The knife slid into him to the hilt in the point of very soft flesh where his chest bones parted to yield to ribs.
Bart toppled without a sound, and Lonnie let out a soft, satisfied breath. A heavy weight seemed to have gone from his chest. He felt good.
And then the bewilderment came to his eyes as Louise leaped up from the settee, her eyes wild, and started screaming.
Lonnie had never heard such screams in all his life, not even in the kind of movies he liked to see. He couldn’t understand why she was screaming.
He stood there, trying to explain everything to her. She had saved his neck, and for a friend like that you were compelled to do a favor at every chance. He had done her the highest favor he could think of.
He had given her freedom, but, somehow, she didn’t seem happy about it.
The Seven Year Hitch
Originally appeared in The Man from U.N.C.L.E. Magazine, August 1966.
From the arched doorway of the fine old home, Mr. Peabody stared down the winding, tree-shaded drive.
“Mother!” he summoned his wife.
Mrs. Peabody came to the entry foyer behind him, breathless and slightly rumpled from house cleaning. “Yes, Mr. Peabody?”
“A car just turned in the driveway. Must be Teddy.”
“Gracious, he’s early!” Warmly plump, Mrs. Peabody shucked her apron and thrust it in the cloak closet.
As the sleek sports car with a lone occupant rolled to a stop, Mr. Peabody gallantly took his wife’s jolly fat arm and hurried with her down the broad steps of the veranda.
The two old people reached the car as the young man was getting out.
“Welcome home, Mr. Hockins,” Mr. Peabody said.
“We opened the house and cleaned it, as your letter instructed,” Mrs. Peabody added.
“Thank you,” Teddy said languidly. As he stood looking at the house, Mr. and Mrs. Peabody exchanged a covert glance.
Mr. Peabody cleared his throat. “Well, how does the place look after all these years?”
“As dreary as ever,” Teddy said.
“Do get his baggage, Mr. Peabody!”
“Yes, Mother. Where are your bags, Teddy?”
Still staring at the house, Teddy Hockins extended his hand and dropped the car keys into Mr. Peabody’s palm. Mr. Peabody hustled to the rear of the car, opened the deck, and began loading himself with Teddy’s suitcases.
The house was drawing Teddy magnetically. A trace of jerkiness in his motions, he started trancelike up the veranda steps.
Beside her husband, Mrs. Peabody whispered, “I don’t think he’s glad to be back.”
“Not a bit. The ghost of his mother and the memory of his terrible deed is still in that house. Seeing him, I’m more certain than ever. He never would have returned, if she hadn’t been declared legally dead and the estate gone into probate.”
“He’ll stay only as long as necessary, Mr. Peabody.”
Mr. Peabody nodded. “But it takes time to settle an estate. And there are other matters he must settle. Don’t forget — he’s lived like a prince these seven years, borrowing against his future inheritance. Before he is through here, we’ll have time to do what must be done.”
“We’ve a big job, Mr. Peabody. Until the day he died in office, Sheriff Tomerlin was sure Teddy had murdered the old lady. Yet he never found the first shred of evidence.”
“Teddy was cunning,” Mr. Peabody admitted. “He simply reported her disappearance, then waited, knowing the law would declare her legally dead after seven years. Now we’ll be close to him, have the opportunity to watch and observe. The devilish memories have had a long time to ferment in him. He’ll make a slip, Mother, that even he won’t notice. It’ll point us to the truth — if our wits are sharp enough.”
“Do be careful, Mr. Peabody.”
“Now you quit worrying. I’m not a mean, neurotic old lady with a vapid, neurotic offspring I’ve driven to momentary madness. No, sir-ree. In a showdown, I’d whip Teddy with my right wrist tied to my left anklebone.”
“I can’t help being a bit frightened, now that he’s actually here.”
“I know,” Mr. Peabody said gently. “But bear in mind, it’s a job only we can do. If we fail, Teddy goes scot free with four million dollars, blood money.”
Teddy Hockins dined by candlelight, his pallor almost lost in the large old dining room.
As she served him, Mrs. Peabody coaxed, “Another cocktail, Mr. Hockins?”
He looked at her morosely. “What are you trying to do, Mrs. Peabody?”
“I don’t believe I understand, sir.”
“You’ve been attempting to ply me with drink, Mrs. Peabody. Hoping to addle my wits, loosen my lips?”
“Really, sir—”
As she started to turn from the table, Hockins reached and caught her wrist.
“I know what you think,” Teddy said, his eyes gloomy and chill. “What you’ve all thought for seven years. You and your husband have remained in the cottage on the rear of the estate, living on my monthly checks. You were necessary, to protect the place from prowlers and thieves.”
She quaked. Was he saying she and Mr. Peabody were now no longer necessary?
“Surely, Mrs. Peabody, in all that time you’ve had a chance to go over every inch of the estate. But you had no more luck than the sheriff had years ago, did you? You’ve found no sign of a grave.”
“You are mistaken, Mr. Hockins.”
“Oh, come now. When I sent the keys and asked you to open the house, you had a couple of days to poke in every nook and cranny.” A thin laugh came from him. “And yet — where are the bones, Mrs. Peabody?”