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:
Not a bad nut, I thought. Exhaustive work for thirty-six hours, but I could pull it off. And it would really help fatten up the old bank balance. Still, when the government comes calling, why not answer with enthusiasm?
“All right. Call it four thousand.”
Another little bit of color was added to his face. “You seem pretty confident of yourself.”
“I’m the only good P.I. within quite a distance.”
“There’s Roger Valliere. Out in Montcalm.”
This time, I didn’t succeed. I did laugh. “Roger’s a retired deputy sheriff. Nice old buck, if you want a car repossessed or a lawsuit served. For a thirty-six hour surveillance... he won’t last, sorry.”
“Thirty-five hundred.”
Oh, what the heck. “Deal. What’s the surveillance? Keeping an eye on who’s living in the farmhouse, or who’s going in and going out?”
“The place is empty. We want you to see if anyone shows up during that time frame.”
“Who?”
“Anyone, that’s who.”
“Sounds intriguing. All right, you haven’t answered the most important question.”
“Which is?”
“Why?”
“Sorry?”
I shifted in my seat. “Why? I’ve been in business long enough to know that private work and public work rarely meet, and when they do meet, they usually don’t get along. So why is the FBI wanting to hire lil’ ol’ me?”
“Resources.”
“Really?”
“Really. You know what’s been on our mind since 9/11. White-collar crime, bank robberies, computer fraud. It’s all taken a back seat to counterterrorism. We don’t have the manpower anymore to do routine work. Which is why we’re looking to hire you for those thirty-six hours. We have information that someone of... someone of interest might be in the area.”
“Someone bad?”
“Let’s just say someone of interest and keep it at that.”
“Do I get to know who he or she might be?”
Another chilly smile. “If you take the job, you’ll be given a secure, prepaid cell phone. If someone shows up — even somebody delivering a package or reading a gas meter — you’ll give us a call.”
I thought about the job offer, thought about my bank account, and looked at Agent Carr again. His face had a mocking look about it, like he was daring me to take the gig.
“And you’re saying the farmhouse is empty?”
“Quite empty,” he said.
“You sure?”
“The FBI says its empty. We’ll leave it that.”
I tried not to show my lack of enthusiasm for the FBI’s capability to determine very much unless it was presented to them wrapped up in bright red gift ribbon.
“All right,” I said. “You’ve got me. Thirty-six hours beginning this Friday evening.”
I went to a side drawer of my desk to pull out a standard client contract, but he beat me to it. A sheaf of papers came out of his briefcase and went across my desk.
“A contractor agreement,” he said. “Please review and sign. And note the nondisclosure and confidentiality clauses in the last two pages.”
I suppose I should have sent him on his way and then spent an hour or two with a friendly local attorney to see what I was getting myself into, but I still liked the thought of thirty-five hundred dollars for thirty-six hours of running surveillance. I skimmed through the form and signed the bottom, and Agent Carr did some magic of his own, and then passed over a cashier’s check for half of the amount.
“Standard, am I correct? Half in advance.”
I slipped the check into a side drawer. “Quite standard.”
Two more items were now on the desk. A cell phone and a business card. “My business card, if you need to contact me. And the encrypted, prepaid cell phone, to make the contact. Any questions?”
A whole bunch, but only a couple came to mind. “This he or she. Dangerous?”
“You have to make your own judgment,” he said quietly. “The fact that this someone is a person of interest to the FBI should give you the necessary guidance.”
“All right,” I said. “Do you want a report when the surveillance is done?”
An amused shake of his head, as if I were wasting his FBI-man time by asking such silly questions.
“No, no report necessary. If we don’t hear anything from you, we assume no one showed up. And if someone shows up, you’ll make the call, and we’ll take it from there. Anything else?”
Well, I thought. This was sure going to be a day to remember.
“Nope, I think we’re all set, Agent Carr.”
He snapped his briefcase shut and stood up. I stood up as well and shook his outstretched hand. He said, “I’m pleased this went so well. Country manners, am I right?”
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“Country manners,” he said. “I’m originally from Boston, got assigned to the Chicago bureau when I graduated from the Academy... I like the pace, like the nice country manners up here. It’s a nice change.”
“Glad to hear it, Mister FBI,” I said, putting on my most innocent smile.
And I waited until he got out of view before looking down at my center desk drawer, open since Agent Carr had first walked into my office. And nestled there, above a checking account statement from the Purmort Cooperative Savings Bank, was my Ruger stainless steel .357 revolver. For whenever a sole male comes into my office, I always have the center drawer open, just in case.
Country manners, indeed.
So after a while, I decided it was time to leave my office and get home to see Roscoe, my male better half, to see how he was doing and to tell him about what had happened with the FBI. I got a free cheese pizza from my neighbors next door — being in a conservative small town, I leaned toward conservative eating when it comes to pizza — and a five-minute drive got me home. I parked my four-year-old Ford SUV in the dirt driveway, and apologies to all, but an SUV gets me out of trouble during rainy days, snowy days, and muddy days here in Purmort, and balancing dinner in my hand, I went home. My home, small and lovely, is a cottage of sorts on two acres of land on the Hanratty River, and it belongs to me, Roscoe, and the Purmort Cooperative Savings Bank. I got the door opened and yelled out, “Honey, I’m home!”
No answer. Typical.
Through the small living room into the combo kitchen and dining room, I put the pizza box down and said, “Roscoe, come on, it’s not nice to tease.”
Approaching footsteps. Finally.
I grabbed a Coke from the fridge and went to the countertop that served as my table, and sitting on a tall stool, washing a paw, was a black and white short-haired cat that was the size of a small raccoon.
I scratched his head as I opened the pizza box and popped open the Coke. “And how was your day, hon?”
In reply, Roscoe started purring. He’s not a lap cat, not a cat overbrimming with ootchie-cootchie cuteness, but he can always be counted on to start rumbling with pleasure when on the scene.
Which meant, in my universe at least, that he beat out most male bipeds.
As I munched on the first slice, I said, “So. Get this. There I am, minding my own business, wondering what to do for the rest of the day, when the FBI shows up. A representative from one of the top law enforcement agencies comes into Purmort and requests my services. Can you believe it?”
The purrs grew louder. “No, I can’t believe it either. If the FBI really wanted to do a freelance surveillance and not tie up their own resources, they’d bring in contract people, already vetted and experienced. Like retired military or FBI. Not a local yokel, as attractive and smart as she might be.”
The purrs seemed to slow. I finished one slice and reached for another. “I hope your purr drop-off isn’t a comment on my looks and abilities.” I took a smudge of tomato sauce and let Rosoe lick it off with his raspy tongue. Our own secret, never to be shared with his vet.