Читаем Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 36, No. 6, June 1991 полностью

I finally decided I’d play all innocence, never turn my back on him, and maybe it would all go away. I’m pretty fast on my feet and he was an old man, but no telling what he’d do if something gave — like he might get extra adrenaline. If he did manage to do me in, it sure would be one heck of an artistic way to go, with a Venetian stiletto between my bony little shoulder blades. But I didn’t intend to die, even artistically. I mean, I’m just a young cat and I have a lot of living to do.


Yes, tonight is the night. I shall play it cool, to quote my young and entirely too perspicacious friend. I do feel the entire situation is unfortunate, but what am I to do? The stiletto, of course. I remember when I bought it in a Los Angeles antique store. How many intrigues had it seen? Had it belonged to one of the Borgias? Well, the time has come for it to come to life again. Has it been waiting for all these years to taste that precious thing, blood? I have already removed the cover from the well — those heavy cement lids are difficult to manage, but this is something that must be done and I find that my strength is now that of ten.

I, Calagria (I have become bold enough to use my true name), must now protect myself so that I may continue to offer the world my genius, for what is one lad compared to the deathless paintings which I shall produce? Life is short and art is long; a cliche; but so true, so true. The boy has great talent, yes, but then another will come along. Through the centuries great talents have always been with us, sung and unsung. It would be best for me to spare the poor child the intense pain of maturing in this violent world, where his sensitivity might be permanently damaged. In a way I’m doing him a favor. It is all so simple, really. We shall have our dinner, I will interest him in the process of egg tempera paint, and knowing the lad, he will become so involved with the new knowledge that it will be quite easy for me to, shall we say, send him to a happier place.

While gazing at my painting last night I was discussing with Lorenzo de’Medici the fine art of people disposal, as I prefer to call it.

“Diversion, diversion,” he said, smiling, as he fingered one of his priceless rings. Of course Lorenzo himself would never do such a thing, but he did have people working for him. We Venetians are clever, subtle people. I have prepared what might be termed a “last supper” for the boy. I do feel that the lad should spend his last night upon the earth happy and well fed. Only two more hours and he will be here. Everything is in readiness. The lasagne is waiting only to be popped into the oven and the wine is chilled. I am prepared.


Hoo, boy, Kelly John Kelly, I mumbled to myself as I combed what beard I have, here we go. It sounds sort of, well, melodramatic, and like it would be easier just to turn the poor guy in but, I repeat, I’m a fanatic about art and I just couldn’t hurt him. I was sincerely hoping that it could all be settled, like nice and peaceful. So off I went. One of the of-age students had bought me a half pint of vodka and I’d downed some of it — Dutch courage, my old grandmother used to say. I trundled along, sort of all drunked up under the spooky moon, and as the one sidewalk in this village sort of rolls up at eight o’clock I really never felt so alone in my life, like going to my doom.

I finally came to the little shack, looking dark and forbidding, in the middle of a weed patch, with dinky glimmers of light coming through the window — like a goblin house. Up I tippy-toed and knocked on the door, gulping oxygen all the while. Then I stuck my chin up and tried to relax. Man oh man oh manaroonian, I was scared, but still feeling the vodka, like the rough edges were sort of dulled.

The door slowly squeaked open and there he was, grinning through his beard, wearing, for Pete’s sake, this Venetian-type costume, like one in the Calagria picture.

“Ah, my boy, come in, come in. Delightful to see you, yes indeed.”

The food smelled great. He poured me a glass of wine — real good stuff this time, though I couldn’t help wondering about poison — but seeing as how he poured a glass for himself out of the same bottle and I didn’t see any funny stuff going on, I started to relax, and pretty soon my worries were sloughing off. It was warm and cosy and I thought, well, I’ve had a paranoid spell. Hell with it.

Перейти на страницу:

Похожие книги

Безмолвный пациент
Безмолвный пациент

Жизнь Алисии Беренсон кажется идеальной. Известная художница вышла замуж за востребованного модного фотографа. Она живет в одном из самых привлекательных и дорогих районов Лондона, в роскошном доме с большими окнами, выходящими в парк. Однажды поздним вечером, когда ее муж Габриэль возвращается домой с очередной съемки, Алисия пять раз стреляет ему в лицо. И с тех пор не произносит ни слова.Отказ Алисии говорить или давать какие-либо объяснения будоражит общественное воображение. Тайна делает художницу знаменитой. И в то время как сама она находится на принудительном лечении, цена ее последней работы – автопортрета с единственной надписью по-гречески «АЛКЕСТА» – стремительно растет.Тео Фабер – криминальный психотерапевт. Он долго ждал возможности поработать с Алисией, заставить ее говорить. Но что скрывается за его одержимостью безумной мужеубийцей и к чему приведут все эти психологические эксперименты? Возможно, к истине, которая угрожает поглотить и его самого…

Алекс Михаэлидес

Детективы
Астральное тело холостяка
Астральное тело холостяка

С милым рай и в шалаше! Проверить истинность данной пословицы решила Николетта, маменька Ивана Подушкина. Она бросила мужа-олигарха ради нового знакомого Вани – известного модельера и ведущего рейтингового телешоу Безумного Фреда. Тем более что Николетте под шалаш вполне сойдет квартира сына. Правда, все это случилось потом… А вначале Иван Подушкин взялся за расследование загадочной гибели отца Дионисия, настоятеля храма в небольшом городке Бойске… Очень много странного произошло там тридцать лет назад, и не меньше трагических событий случается нынче. Сколько тайн обнаружилось в маленьком городке, едва Иван Подушкин нашел в вещах покойного батюшки фотографию с загадочной надписью: «Том, Гном, Бом, Слон и Лошадь. Мы победим!»

Дарья Аркадьевна Донцова , Дарья Донцова

Иронический детектив, дамский детективный роман / Иронические детективы / Детективы