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:
“Male. But not deep, sounded fairly young. No noticeable accent. I’ll get a cassette player, have you listen to it on the off chance you recognize it. You know a lot of Elmer’s friends.”
“Did it sound threatening?”
“The words are threatening enough, but yes, there was a definite... tone to it.”
I watched the neighbors’ kids scream and shout as they chased a ball through their back yard. “I don’t know, Jake,” I said, answering his original question. “Could it be a name? ‘Don’t show something to the Dreamers,’ with a capital D?”
“Or Dramers, and it was pronounced wrong. Or Dremers without an a in it. It could be somebody’s name.”
I rested my elbows on my knees. “Doesn’t make sense, though. I don’t know anyone with that name. Could it be... what? The Dreamers sounds like a rock group, or the name of a stupid horror book or movie.”
“Herbie, I’m going to ask you to do something,” Jake said. He came down to the bottom step so he could look at me face to face. “I’m going to investigate this, talk to all Elmer’s neighbors and friends, find out what I can, even though this is probably just an accident. You know most of his friends and neighbors, and you’re going to be home for the next two days—”
“Golly, sheriff,” I interrupted cockily, “you appointing me your new deputy?”
I don’t know how he stopped himself from reaching out and slapping me one, but he did.
“You listen to me.” His face grew hard and fierce for a moment. “I’ll let you listen to that tape, but you are not to go around and ask questions. Anyone who would push an old man off a ladder isn’t going to care about some fourteen-year-old kid, you understand?” He sighed. “I don’t know anyone who might hold a grudge against Elmer, but...” A pause. “I’ve got somebody holding a grudge against me right now that I didn’t know a thing about.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“So I’m just asking if you hear anything you let me know. Now, if you can stand me for another hour, I’ll be glad to drive you over to County General. What do you say? Then we can get a bite to eat on the way back. I asked your mother; she doesn’t want to go. She says she’ll take some time off tomorrow to visit Elmer.”
So he had surprised me; now it was my turn. “Tell me, Jake, your new girlfriend, she as pretty as my mother?”
Stunned, he just stared at me.
I wasn’t done. “She younger? Smarter? Got a better job? Or how about this: she’s got no kids to get in the way, right?”
“Herbie.” Again, looking right at me, but because I felt like a fool suddenly and didn’t want him to see the tears in my eyes, I jumped up.
“Hell yes, let’s go see him. Because if anything happens to him...” I couldn’t say anything more, couldn’t look at him, but neither could I cover up the crack in my voice as I went to the back door and told my mother I’d be out with Jake for a little while.
All I could think about as we went through Mr. Hornton’s house that evening — turning on lights, setting a radio on low so it would sound like someone was at home — was what he’d looked like in that hospital bed. So old. A hundred years old. Even his tanned and leathery skin, face and hands, had looked pale, insubstantial, thin as paper. I wanted him to sit up, shake off all those tubes and lines they had stuck in him, and yell at me for getting thrown out of school.
“Nothing,” Jake commented. He was sitting at Mr. Hornton’s rolltop desk in a corner of the living room. He hadn’t touched anything because he had no reason to; besides, he had nobody’s permission. I was there because Mr. Hornton had trusted me and my mother with the key to his house long ago.
But Jake had done a few things — put a new tape in the answering machine and checked the front door again — and now he was glancing at the large calendar Mr. Hornton kept on his desk, using it as a kind of combination blotter and schedule pad.
“I’ll have the guys on shift tonight drive by a couple of times,” he told me, “just to keep an eye on things.”
Suddenly he pointed at the calendar. “What’s this on Saturday the twelfth? ‘Exhibition, library.’ What’s that about?”
“Mr. Hornton paints a little, you know, his hobby.” I shrugged and sat down on the arm of the couch near the desk. “Nothing big. Still lifes. Boats. He bought himself some new paintbrushes; they’re in the Big Eddie’s bag on the counter.”
“He paints?”
“Yeah, watercolors. He’s got his stuff in the spare bedroom. You didn’t notice? I thought you checked everything this afternoon.” I headed for the smaller of the two bedrooms, which opened off the living room. “He’s got easels and canvases and everything. There’s a big window in here, but it faces east so the light’s no good except in the morning. Sometimes he works on the front porch, and lately he’s been going to the beach. I’ll show you.”
Jake was just a few steps behind me. “Boats. Herbie, could the Dreamers be a boat?”
“I suppose. He does boat lettering, and he’s real good at it, you know, but it still doesn’t sound right. I mean, when you think about what the guy on the tape said, ‘You’ll be sorry if you show the dreamers.’ Why would Mr. Hornton ‘show’ a boat? Doesn’t make sense.”
“I’m going to have to listen to that tape again. Maybe a few times,” he said.
I flicked on the light, and Jake nearly banged into me when I stopped short and stood there frozen and speechless.
Then I said that word, the one that had gotten me into so much trouble about eight hours ago. This time I definitely thought it fit the situation. Because I’d just found something else that didn’t make sense.
There was nothing in Mr. Hornton’s spare bedroom. Not a stick of furniture. Not an easel or canvas. No paints. No work table where he mixed his paints. Nothing. Zilch. Zero. Zip.
Suddenly I felt like I was back in an alien place again.
Of course I couldn’t sleep, or rather I had one of those nights where you’re not really sleeping, you’re constantly tossing and turning, looking at the clock. I thought I heard voices once or twice, my mother on the phone, and I thought of getting up to see what was going on. Then I realized she’d come and get me if anything had happened. To Mr. Hornton, that is.
When I finally woke up, I felt like I hadn’t slept at all. She probably hadn’t slept much either. She was standing in the kitchen staring out the window with one hand in her hair, the other holding a coffee cup. On her face was a vague, distracted kind of look as though she wasn’t able to focus on anything.
But she heard me, and said, “I’m not going to work today. I’ve things I have to do at the hospital. Paul’s taking me over.”
I didn’t say anything to that, just scooped my workboots from under the table and, pulling out a kitchen chair, sat down to put them on.
“Herbie, when you and Jake were at the hospital last night, I got a call from Mr. Sharpe.”
“Yeah, so?”
“I know a lot’s going on right now, but we’ve got to talk about this, too.”
I had no interest in talking about school. “How’s Mr. Hornton?” I looked up at her. “I mean, he didn’t die or anything, right? You would have waked me up and told me that, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course I would,” she said, shocked. “The bleeding stopped, but his prognosis still isn’t good. He may have to have surgery, and he’s seventy-three.” She put her hand to her mouth, set down her coffee cup, and walked to the back door. She wasn’t a very big woman, less than five three, and was lucky if she weighed a hundred pounds. But suddenly she looked even smaller and incredibly fragile. “Elmer gave me power of attorney a year ago; you know that. He has no relatives, so I have to go sign some papers and talk to some people.”