Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 763 & 764, March/April 2005
- Автор: Dean David, Dempsey Timothy F.
- Год: 2005
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: ISSN 1054-8122
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 763 & 764, March/April 2005». Краткое содержание книги:
In the middle of brushing my teeth, I stopped. What had that grocery clerk said? That my toenails were as “black as the ace of spades.” It couldn’t be my eyes, if my nails looked black to him, too. Unless he was pulling my leg. Having fun at the expense of an old woman.
I left the bathroom and went down the hall to my bedroom. When I stepped in, I was struck by how much it resembled the bedroom in the film Laura. I half expected Gene Tierney to step out of the closet in one of her satin and lace negligees. Or Bogart, as Sam Spade, to sit on the edge of the bed, putting together one of his hand-rolled cigarettes. Or Cary Grant to rush in and rescue me from Claude Rains. I wouldn’t mind Cary Grant showing up, but as I crawled between my gray sheets (they had been lilac this morning) and turned out the light, the room became peopled with less charming characters: Claude Rains’s scary mother; Mr. Gutman, a.k.a. The Fat Man; and that creepy housekeeper, Mrs. Danvers. I was becoming like the heroine in Rebecca, played to perfection by Joan Fontaine. She was afraid of everything, expecting a bogeyman under every bed and a ghost around every corner.
Get hold of yourself, I said aloud. There had to be a reasonable explanation for this. Some of these eye conditions could come on suddenly and disappear just as suddenly. Maybe in the morning, when I was rested, everything would be back to normal. With that comforting thought I turned out the light and snuggled under the covers. At least in the dark, everything was the same as the night before.
I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up, the clock said one-thirty. I stretched my legs, hunting for Sophie with my toes. She wasn’t there. She always slept at the end of my bed. I switched on the light and the gray room burst upon me, more startling than if it had become neon pink or orange. I reached for my robe, slid into my slippers, and went to look for her.
“Sophie?” I called from the top of the stairs. Usually, when she heard my voice, she came swiftly, padding up the stairs, and wrapped herself around my legs. The stairs remained empty. I started down. On the third step, I heard something. Not a noise, exactly, but a definite sound. A sort of soft shuffling. Cautiously, I descended three more steps. That sound again. I stood, rooted to the step — afraid to go up or down.
Crash!
I jumped. There was nothing soft about that! It was a relief to hear a real noise. Sophie must be into something. The noise had come from the kitchen. She must have knocked over a pot or pan. I hurried down the rest of the stairs. As before, I flicked on the lights as I passed through each room. And, as before, the illumination was weak due to my eye condition — or whatever it was.
“Sophie?” I stepped into the kitchen and switched on the light. A pot lay upside down on the floor near the stove. But no cat brushed my bare ankles. Instead, I felt a cold draft. The back door was ajar. I was sure I had locked it before I went to bed. Oh dear, maybe the cat had gotten out. Or maybe someone else... had gotten in. I stood riveted, wondering if I should call 911.
I lifted the receiver. Hands grabbed me around the throat and began to squeeze. The phone slipped from my hand. I struggled, gasping, clawing at the hands. Their pressure increased. I felt dizzy. I stared at the blank, gray kitchen wall (which had been yellow that morning). As I stared, two words slowly emerged in the center — in dark type — just as they had at the close of all those noir movies long ago — except for one thing: This time the words were backwards, and — who were all those strangers on the other side, staring up at me...? DNE EHT
Copyright ©; 2005 by Robin Hathaway.
Not for Love nor Money
by Robin Wilson
Carmel California’s Robin Wilson has had several dozen science fiction short stories and novelettes published over the years, and in 1995 St. Martin’s Press brought out his mystery novel Death by Degrees. The author is a former employee of the CIA, and says that he also knows the world of higher education “truly well.” His setting for this story is the world of academe, a California college where it appears that one professor has it out for another.
Professors divide themselves into sects, and you can tell one faith from another by the cars they drive. Faculties in Business Administration and Engineering drive big American cars, mostly SUVs. They vote Republican. Those of us in the Liberal Arts and Sciences favor unassuming Fords, Hondas, or Chevys, if we haven’t made tenure, or the least expensive Volvo, Mercedes, or an occasional BMW, if we have. We vote Democrat. And people in the fine and performing arts wheel around in battered VW campers or tiny Japanese vehicles that look like they ought to have a winding key sticking up out of their tops. And they vote for odd parties you’ve never heard of. There are exceptions, of course, but they only prove my case.
So I was surprised one warm autumn day after lunch in downtown Greenfield, as I was walking back to campus with my blue blazer slung over my shoulder, to be honked out of my reverie by a huge black Lincoln Navigator that swooshed to the curb next to me and revealed its driver to be the ethereal Naomi Cordier, Associate Professor of Dance, clad, as usual, in something diaphanous and floral. In her mid thirties, small, short dark hair, ravishingly beautiful, Naomi had enjoyed a good — for a dancer — ten-year run with major companies, until a foot injury had forced her retirement. She had picked up an MFA in Dance that would allow her to teach, and when she came to Greenfield State three or four years ago, every straight man on campus fell instantly in love. But Naomi in the Navigator? Think Audrey Hepburn suited up to play linebacker for the 49ers.
She leaned across to call out through the passenger-side window: “Dr. Haas! Peter! Have you got a minute? I was just on my way to campus to try to see you. I — uh — we’ve got a problem.”
And of course “problem” is the magic word for me. Like Shazam! or the click of Dorothy’s slippers, that word is transforming, in my case from a middle-aged English professor with the bland looks of a Dutch cheese salesman into the university president’s executive assistant charged with discreetly resolving all puzzles, conundrums, screwups, and dastardly acts likely to bring embarrassment to our campus.
“Sure, Naomi,” I said, climbing into the Navigator. “Where’d you get this juggernaut?”
“It’s Harrison’s,” she said, pulling back into Main Street traffic. “Harrison Buckman. You know, in Electrical Engineering?”
“Yes, we’ve done some rock climbing together.”
Harrison was much admired as “The King of Grants,” and he deserved it. His crew of a dozen scientists and technicians in our Nanotechnology Lab had brought Greenfield State University a modicum of fame.
“Harrison and I, we...” She glanced appraisingly at me and then returned her eyes to the crowded road ahead. “We’ve been living together...” Her voice died and she drove on in silence as if weighing choices. Then, with a determined shake of her head: “Harrison has been hurt. He’ll be all right. The doctor says there’s been no permanent damage, but someone beat him up pretty badly.”