"killerinthehouse" - читать интересную книгу автора (Blackmon Robert C)

them had windows opening out on the seventh floor balcony. By going out on the balcony, I
could look in through those windows and perhaps spot the killer without going into the
rooms. It sounded good.

Moving fast, I went along the side hall and out on the seventh floor balcony. Steamer
chairs made odd shapes along the narrow, tiled space. Beyond the rail, I could see the
light mist hanging over the ocean. The surf made a dull and unending rumbling on the beach
far below.

Wishing that I'd brought a gun up to the seventh floor with me, I went along the balcony
to the far end. Just for luck, I took a look through the windows of 716, the young couple's
room. I couldn't see much and kept shading the glass with my hands and changing my position
to see better. I did that for about three or four minutes. Then every drop of blood I had
seemed to rush into my throat and choke me, as a shrill, terrified scream ripped through the
night.

It rose up to an impossibly high note, then dropped abruptly to a choking, bubbling
groan. It came from somewhere within the hotel, from the seventh floor, I judged.

Almost blinded by sweat that was rolling off my forehead, I headed for the side hallway
door on the run, pounding along the tiled balcony. I made about four steps, then tangled
with a steamer chair, and went over on my face on the tile. Maybe I yelled. I wouldn't know.
I thought the knifeman had me for a split moment.

Untangling myself from the chair, I got up and went on to the side hall and into the
building. I was scared, and I know I was breathing heavily.

I reached the corner of the main hall and turned into the larger passage. I hadn't taken
two steps before I saw the thing on the floor near the door of David Hammond's room, It was
wrapped in what appeared to be a red and yellow crazy quilt, and I knew who it was.

I reached it and looked down into Jame Ollis' fat, round face. His small, blue eyes were
wide open and staring fixedly, his mouth open and sagging. James Ollis would never drink
anybody under the table again. He was dead. Blood from a knife thrust in his chest darkened
the brightly-colored pajamas with an irregular, slowly spreading stain. He was Iying on the
hall carpet not five feet from Hammond's door.

I went to Hammond's door and discovered that it was open about an inch. I had left it
closed, its snaplock engaged with the striker plate. Someone had opened Hammond's door after
I left it!

Goose pimples came out all over me.

That someone was the knife-armed killer. He had killed James Ollis, though how the short,
fat man had got out into the hallway where he was killed, I didn't know. I'd left him in a
drunken sleep in his room!


My mind jumped around like drops of water on a hot griddle. I didn't know what I should do,
but I knew I had to do something. We had two murders in the house, now, and the Sea View