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:
“Like coming up with evidence,” I said, “to support the notion that Joe Hayden assaulted Harrison Buckman?”
Harrison’s eyes widened. “You mean he could have staged the whole thing?”
“If the attack on you wasn’t for love or money,” I said, “what’s left? How about power? Advancement? Climbing up the academic food chain?”
I could see Harrison’s mind working, testing one theory, rejecting another. “Well, I suppose...”
“Think about it, Harrison. You say Bowen’s not much of a scientist, but good at keeping the organization going. Think he might have ambitions to replace you?”
Harrison slowly nodded, conviction building in him. “Boy, if it is him, I’m going to pound that little twit into nanobits.”
“Yeah,” I said. “And then you’ve got another reputation issue on your hands. What will the NSF think about the headline ‘Lab Chief Batters Deputy’?”
Harrison breathed deeply, forcing calm. “Okay. But what else can I do? If we give this mess to the cops, they might not find any evidence that would convict him, if it is Charlie, and just making the effort would get us plenty of bad publicity.”
I pondered. Then I said, “Let’s theorize. Assume you’re convinced that Bowen bagged you, what would you do? I mean within legal bounds. More important, assume he knows you know, what would he expect you to do?”
“I’d make his life so damn miserable he’d be sending out resumes by the bushel. No money for his own projects. Rotten teaching schedule...” Harrison’s face took on a wicked smile, distorted by his swollen cheeks. “And he’ll be up for tenure next year... Ha!”
“He wouldn’t have any doubt about what was in store?”
“He’s not stupid.”
I thought some more, and then it was time to act. “Harrison? You have a computer in the house somewhere, with a printer? Some lab stationery?”
“Of course.”
“How about you — no — how about you, Naomi, can you type up a letter?”
Naomi was already on her feet, voile twirling. “I can do a few things other than dance.”
“It should read, ‘Professor Buckman. I herewith resign my position with the laboratory and my assistant professorship at Greenfield State University, effective immediately.’ On the copy lines put the chair of the Electrical Engineering Department and President Swenson, make three copies, and address three envelopes accordingly. Drop the whole bundle into a manila envelope big enough to hold a videotape.”
Naomi, smiling now at the prospect of action, darted inside.
Harrison said, “Why would he sign?”
“I’ll show you,” I said, “as soon as we get back to campus.”
We had stopped for something to eat and it was almost seven by the time the three of us crossed the deserted evening Quad, Naomi in something mauve and gauzy that swirled when she walked, and Harrison, limping, in a denim jacket draped over his shoulders. We entered Hayden’s studio, where he was just starting to resume his evening’s painting.
He was surprised, confused, apprehensive. “Look,” he said, his eyes darting from one to another of us. “I told you everything I could this afternoon, Haas.” Harrison did his best to remain expressionless and Naomi looked at Joe as if she might weep.
“It’s okay, Joe,” I said. “I think we can fix this whole thing pretty fast with a little help from you. Is that tape you made last night still in the camera?”
He held up a remote. “Yeah. I’m just about to start it again, continue what I’ve been doing.”
“Would it be a terrible loss if you gave us the tape?”
Hayden shrugged. “I can live without it. Worth it if it gets me off the hook.”
“Oh, Joe,” said Naomi. “You were never on the hook.”
This brought a smile to his face. “You want the tape, I’ll give it to you.”
“Before you unload it,” I said, “will you join Harrison and Naomi at your easel?”
“What in God’s name are you up to, Peter?” said Harrison. Hayden looked confused. Naomi cocked her head for an instant and smiled as realization of my plan dawned on her. She held up the manila envelope with the letters. “Come, gentlemen. Pretend we just won the lottery, the three of us, and we’re congratulating each other with lots of smiles.”
Naomi posed Harrison on one side of Hayden, his left hand in Hayden’s right, and she stood on the other side, her hand on Hayden’s arm. I pressed the Record button on the remote. The camera clicked on and blinked its red eye. “We’ll give it sixty seconds,” I said. “Make sure whoever looks at the tape that proves where Joe was last night will also see where he is this evening. And who he’s talking with.”
After the minute, I thumbed the remote and Joe retrieved the tape and handed it to me. I dropped it into the envelope with the letters of resignation. “You going to mail that to him?” asked Harrison, now reading from the same page as Naomi and I and smiling as broadly as his injured face would allow.
“No,” I said. “If we’re wrong about this, I think he’ll let me know quick enough. If we’re right, he won’t have the guts to try to fake me out. So I think I’ll just drop it off at his home. Maybe me being the bearer will give credibility to the bad tidings.”
“Ah, Peter,” Naomi said. “You’re not credible. You’re incredible.”
Copyright ©; 2005 by Robin Wilson.
Visit to a Chat Room
by Timothy F. Dempsey
“In the Internet age,” says Timothy Dempsey, “just a moment’s weakness can lead to grave con-sequences. There are probably millions of good family men [like the one in this story] who could suddenly appear to be less than they are.” Mr. Dempsey lives in North Carolina. He has been published in several professional journals, but this is his first fiction. He is currently finishing up his first novel.
Fred was about to hit the snooze alarm for the third time when he realized he had better get out of bed. It took each member of the family a little longer on Mondays, and each of them relied on him to get things started. If he slept too late, the morning became a panic and everyone blamed him. He’d rather drag his head off the pillow now than have to listen to all the chatter that would come his way if he delayed. He swung his legs off his side of the bed, slipped on his boxers, and stumbled down the hallway. He stuck his head in his son’s room. “David, time to get up.” David mumbled, but Fred knew his words were not registering. He walked in and shook his fifteen-year-old’s shoulder. “David, it’s seven-oh-seven; I’ll be back in ten minutes to make sure you’re up. You need to print out your paper, remember?”
“Dad, go away.”
“You asked me to remind you!”
“Remind me in ten minutes.”
Fred backed out of the room and proceeded down the hallway. He knocked on his daughter’s door. No response. He knocked louder. “Pumpkin, time to get up.” Still no reply. He cracked open the door and peeked in, knowing how much Connie hated it if he looked in on her while she was dressing. All he saw was a big lump under the heavy quilt. As he shook the lump, he looked beyond it to the empty bed on the other side of the room, so nicely made and covered with a collection of colorful stuffed animals, most of them acquired, one at a time, on his business trips. As usual, he had a twinge, just a moment, of missing his other daughter, wondering what routine she used to get out of bed in the dorm. “Come on, Connie, time to roll. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”