Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2006
- Автор: Бетанкур Джон Грегори, Jr. William J. Carroll,
- Год: 2006
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines/Crosstown Publications
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2006». Краткое содержание книги:
Naturally, he did not drink. Nor did he wear cologne or use scented soap, and he did not permit his luscious wife, Jasmine, to use them, either. When he first met her, Jasmine was as fragrant as her namesake flower, but he couldn’t tolerate living with such a strong scent. She gave it up for him. Mort lavished Jasmine with jewelry to console her for her loss.
Now his taste buds and nose were clogged with the ugly scent of the woman’s death and the overpowering odor of that disgusting cherry disinfectant. Mort had no idea what the woman looked like in real life. He caught only a flash of pale arms, flailing legs, and wide, horrified eyes, before she hit the pavement and made a splash.
He didn’t mean to be flip about the woman’s terrible death. He was shaken, that’s all. He called the office of Percardian and Sons from the hospital and explained why he wouldn’t be at work that day. Mr. Percardian Senior was sympathetic.
“Take a couple of days off,” he said. “Shock can throw off your taste buds.”
Mort slept badly that night. He couldn’t get that splat! out of his mind. The sound was like something out of a cartoon, except that a woman had exploded like a ripe watermelon on the sidewalk and showered him with her blood.
Finally, after tossing and turning and awakening Jasmine several times, Mort got up and sat in the living room. He wished he had a cigarette. He could see it, glowing in the dark night. He could taste it. But he didn’t. He showered three times, trying to remove the smell of disinfectant. But his powerful smelling and tasting apparatus could still detect the faint traces of the cloying candylike scent.
At six A.M., when the newspaper arrived, Mort looked for a story about the dead woman. It was on page six. He learned that she was Patricia Henley Daniels, forty-seven, a special education teacher. She was married to Decameron Daniels, fifty-one, a stockbroker with Wayne-Symmons. The accident occurred at about seven thirty Monday morning. Her husband told police that he had been dressing in their bedroom when he heard a noise and noticed the living room window was open. He said his wife had been depressed about her father’s recent death from cancer. Patricia had jumped or fallen twenty-one stories to her death.
In her photo, Patricia looked small and pretty. She had large dark eyes, curly dark hair, and a friendly smile. She looked like the sort of person you would want to teach your child. Mort felt sad that she had ended her useful life on a Manhattan sidewalk.
Mort was mentioned too in the news story: “Police said the deceased had fallen close to a passerby on the sidewalk, Mort Heffern, forty-two, of Nyack. Heffern was not injured.”
“Not injured” indeed, thought Mort, as he replayed that awful splat! in his mind and smelled the odor of cherry disinfectant. His hands shook so badly the newspaper rattled.
He stayed home that day as his boss, Mr. Percardian, advised. Mort was pale and tired and everything still tasted of hospital disinfectant. He showered every hour, praying the insinuating cherry scent would leave his nostrils.
He ate sparingly, hoping the blandness of white meat of turkey and whole wheat bread would restore his tortured taste buds. But under the soothing taste of prime turkey breast he caught the corrupting cherry tang. Even sharp English mustard on his sandwich did not remove it.
He tried to nap between his several showers, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw the flailing limbs of Patricia Henley Daniels. Now the dead woman had a face, and he saw those dark eyes, pleading with him to save her in the last dreadful seconds of her life. Then he heard the splat!
“Are you still carrying on about that jumper?” Jasmine was filled with wifely concern. “You should be glad she didn’t land on you. You’re lucky.”
“Lucky!” Mort snapped, his patience at an end. “Everyone keeps saying I was lucky. I was nearly killed. I keep seeing that poor woman hitting the sidewalk. It was awful.”
“Poor baby,” Jasmine said. “Maybe you need some sleeping pills or something.”
But Mort couldn’t take sleeping pills. They made his tongue feel as if it was covered with fur and that interfered with his tasting.
Jasmine made his favorite comfort food that night, homemade tomato-vegetable soup. But the bits of vegetables and rice reminded him of the odd bits and specks the nurse had cleaned off him. And the soup was blood red. He pushed his bowl away, feeling nauseated. Jasmine looked hurt, but she bravely tried to understand.
“Not hungry, baby?” She kissed his broad forehead. “You must try to eat something. I got your favorite dessert.”
She returned with another soup bowl, this one filled with Cherry Garcia ice cream. He could smell the revolting cherry odor before she walked through the dining room door. His stomach gave a mighty heave and he barely made it to the bathroom in time. Patricia’s death resulted in another tragedy. Cherry Garcia had been ruined for Mort for all time, and he mourned the loss.
Mort couldn’t sleep that night, either. Or rather, he would doze off until he saw Patricia in front of him, helplessly clawing the air in the last futile seconds of her life. He would hear the splat! her body made and wake up, panting and sweating, sheets twisted around him, Jasmine blinking unhappily in the light he’d so rudely turned on.
Once more he got up and sat in the living room, staring out the window, wishing for a cigarette, until the morning paper arrived. Today, there were interviews with Patricia’s friends and colleagues saying what a fine person she was. There was more news: The police were investigating her death as “suspicious,” although the story didn’t say why.
Mort spent another day at home, showering, sipping bottled water, and nibbling white meat of turkey. His resilient taste buds were beginning to recover. The dreadful stink of cherries was retreating from his nostrils. Jasmine gave him the comfort of her sweet, unscented self, but did not fix him any food that day. He still heard the splat! in his dreams, and he still sat up most of the night, waiting for dawn and wishing for a cigarette.
It was an exhausted Mort who went out on his porch for the paper that morning. But he woke up when he saw Patricia’s name on the front page. The story said the police had arrested Patricia’s husband, Decameron, for her murder.
The police said Patricia had not been depressed about her father’s death, as her husband claimed. Her friends said she rarely saw the bad-tempered old man and was pleasantly surprised when he’d left her a million dollars. Six days before her death, Patricia discovered that Decameron was having an affair with a woman at his brokerage firm. Patricia had been planning to dump her unfaithful husband without a penny.
The police said Decameron had killed his wife so that he could inherit her million dollars and marry his cookie. They found suspicious-looking scratches on Decameron’s hands and arms that indicated Patricia had fought for her life.
The paper showed a photo of the woman Decameron supposedly had the affair with. She was a blonde of about forty, who looked like a B-movie adulteress. Mort thought she was cheap and obvious compared to pretty little Patricia. As far as Mort was concerned, Decameron had no taste.
But Mort did. His delicate taste buds had recovered, despite his tiredness. He was ready to return to work. But when he got to the block where it happened, he heard that horrible wet splat! rend the air and saw Patricia’s windmilling limbs again. He walked two blocks out of his way to avoid the awful vision and ran smack into a coffee cart featuring warm cherry Danish. The smell was so unnerving, he went yet another block out of his way. He arrived at work half an hour late, jumpy as a bishop in a brothel.