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:
“You pushed him off the ladder.”
“Hey, that was an accident. He told me he’d already sold it. How could he do that? First he tells us that he’s going to show it at the library, then he says he sold it?” He swallowed, or gulped, and turned just enough to move into the fight above the work table. “I couldn’t let him do that. Not sell it. Not show it. Not because of me, but because of the—”
“Other guy in the picture,” I said it for him, suddenly wishing I hadn’t.
His eyes seemed to boil; for a moment there was nothing in them but pure, raw hatred. “What do you know?” he snarled. “What are you, fourteen, fifteen? What do you know?” He moved like he was going to come at me; then he stopped, and a half smile snaked across his face.
“Yeah, it’s me, kid. Want to see?” And with that he tore the band from his hair and swung his head back, smiling as he did. His hair was long enough to reach his shoulders and in the sun probably looked fight enough to be taken for blond. “Hey, I don’t blame you. The old guy thought the same until we came up the beach to see what he was doing. It was all very polite and friendly. He told us he was going to call it The Dreamers, show it at the local library. We’d had a few beers, we didn’t care, Tony and me. It wasn’t until later that—” He stopped short and was looking at me as though he didn’t see me.
“You realized how embarrassing it would be if you were ever recognized. Your friends would never understand. Firefighters and guys who take down trees for a living, right?”
“You’re pretty—” that word again “—bold, aren’t you, kid? Pretty—” and again “—brave.”
The guy was bigger than me and angry and upset and probably very strong. He could have killed me, no problem, and Ed Andersen wouldn’t have heard a thing. But I was angry, too, and the words flew out of me like spit: “And then you saw him again, when? A few days ago, an old guy coming down the street to watch you take down a tree.” I felt my heart pounding, my eyes tearing up. “You recognized him and decided what? To go after him, to intimidate him so he wouldn’t put The Dreamers on public display? Is that what you decided to do, because you did a hell of a nice job, fella, you not only hurt my best friend — he might die.”
“Your best friend?” he said, and then, when I thought for certain that was the stupidest thing I’d ever said or done in my life, he turned away and kind of crumpled down onto his knees. One hand over his eyes, he said, “God, I’m sorry,” and started to cry.
“I’m very appreciative of all your help, sergeant,” the dark-haired man in the expensive business suit said as he came into Jake’s office. He accepted the chair that Officer Andersen indicated. “And I understand the charges against... my friend. My lawyer has explained them to me and to Max. But I have to say this, I’m certain Max never meant to hurt—” a careful glance at me “—your elderly friend, young man. I know it’s no consolation. But I accept responsibility, too.” Back to Jake. “I didn’t tell Max I was taking care of it.”
Jake looked down at the business card the man had presented when he came in. Mr. Anthony Carletti, owner of one of the largest restaurant chains on the Cape. He’d called ahead, and had brought his lawyer with him, too, though the latter was waiting outside.
“Taking care of it,” Jake murmured.
“He was going to buy the painting,” I snapped; what was Jake? A complete moron? Didn’t he know? Hadn’t I explained it already?
“Yes, yes,” the man said, suddenly uncomfortable and shifting in the chair slightly. “I kept it a secret from Max, and I shouldn’t have. His birthday is in... pardon me.” He suddenly turned away and pulling a handkerchief from his pocket quickly wiped his eyes. “There’s really nothing I can say, nothing I can do to make it right. I remembered the artist, the elderly gentleman telling us that he was a retired signpainter, so I called around and found someone at the Town Hall here who knew who he was. I called Mr. Hornton and made an offer but insisted of course on seeing the painting again. I thought I was getting a rather good deal.” He looked at me as he said this; his eyes were wet. “Such a beautiful painting at such a reasonable price. But it seems now such a terrible price to pay, and all for nothing. If I’d just told Max...”
He turned his head away again.
“So, Jake,” I said as I sat down on the railing outside the police station. I’d been right; the sun was up, but so was the wind off the water, blowing in hard and fierce. The gulls were flying inland, too, sign of a storm moving our way.
“And you can’t lie on this one. I need to know.”
He joined me, leaning against the rail, unlit cigarette in his hand.
“Shoot, Herbie,” he said.
“You ever cry? I mean for any reason other than getting hurt, like when you were a little kid, or other than someone close to you dying, like a parent or...” I shrugged.
“Yes, I have.” He looked at me, his sharp blue eyes frank and unapologetic. “I cried when your mother broke up with me.”
“Yeah.” I slid forward off the railing and starting walking toward the Jeep Cherokee waiting for me. “I kind of thought you might have.”
Sidewinder
by David Edgerley Gates
He shook the snake out of his boot and stepped back in case the rattler was aggrieved, but it slithered away, still a little sluggish with sleep. Placido Geist bore the snake no ill will. The nights were cold, and he was probably lucky it hadn’t crawled into his bedroll. He pulled his boots on and squatted down, breathing some life into the fire, or what was left of it, snapping dry mesquite twigs and feeding them to the embers a few at a time until they caught. He rubbed his hands together and blew on them, getting stiffly to his feet again. His bones were old. Nights on the trail, sleeping on the ground, drinking stale cowboy coffee in the mornings.
He grained and watered the claybank mare, listening to the silence. The sun was just clearing the rimrock, casting long shadows across the scrub. The day seemed to be coming up windless and dry. He poured himself some coffee, breaking pieces of hardtack into it to soften.
After he finished his breakfast, he scattered the cookfire with his feet and poured the old grounds over the ashes. He scoured the pot out with sand, packed his gear, and saddled the claybank. He took off the hobbles and mounted, turning her head southwest.
He’d been tracking his man the best part of a week. The old bounty hunter figured to take him by nightfall.
“Concho Jimmy,” Placido Geist said, studying the photograph. It was recent, or more recent than the likeness Placido Geist had been carrying in his head almost half a lifetime.
“That was taken when he started a dime stretch at Huntsville,” said the marshal, a man called Hardesty.
Placido Geist nodded. Ten years in the state penitentiary. “And now he’s done his time,” he said. He calculated the release date. “A week ago Sunday.”
“First thing I heard about it, I sent you the wire,” the marshal told him apologetically.
The telegram had caught up with him in Odessa, four days too late. “No help for it,” Placido Geist remarked.
Hardesty cleared his throat. “It’s my understanding the two of you have a score to settle,” he said.
That was true enough. It was in fact no secret, and the marshal was simply being circumspect.
“I might know which way he’s headed,” Hardesty said.
“That’s a start,” Placido Geist said.
It was awkward, Hardesty thought, trying to frame his information in a delicate way. Perhaps he meant to spare the older man’s feelings, but Placido Geist would have preferred he just get to the point. He had an idea where this might be going. How not?