"Edward L. Ferman - Best From F&SF, 23rd Edition" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ferman Edward L)

from his eyes, and I could see his thin chest throbbing. He gave me a blank look that meant he'd never
heard the name.
"He's about twenty-two," I continued, "dark, curly hair, very good-looking."
He grinned wryly, calming down, trying to cover his panic. "Aren't they all?" he said.
"Detweiler is a hunchback."
His smile contracted suddenly. His eyebrows shot up. "Oh," he said. "Him."
Bingo!
Mallory, you've led a clean, wholesome life and it's paying off.
"Does he live in the building?" I swallowed to get my heart back in place and blinked a couple of
times to clear away the skyrockets.
"No. He was . . . visiting."
"May I come in and talk to yon about him?"
He was holding the door three quarters shut, and so I couldn't see anything in the room but an
expensive-looking color TV. He glanced over his shoulder nervously at something behind him. The inner
ends of his eyebrows drooped in a frown. He looked back at me and started to say something, then, with
a small defiance, shrugged his eyebrows. "Sure, but there's not much I can tell you."
He pushed the door all the way open and stepped back. It was a good-sized living room come to life
from the pages of a decorator magazine. A kitchen behind a half wall was on my right A hallway led
somewhere on my left Directly in front of me were double sliding glass doors leading to the terrace. On
the terrace was a bronzed hunk of beef stretched out nude trying to get bronzer. The hunk opened his
eyes and looked at me. He apparently decided I wasn't competition and closed them again. Tall and
lanky indicated one of two identical orange-and-brown-striped couches facing each other across a
football-field-size marble-and-glass cocktail table. He sat on the other one, took a cigarette from an
alabaster box and lit it with an alabaster lighter. As an afterthought, he offered me one.
"Who was Detweiler visiting?" I asked as I lit the cigarette. The lighter felt cool and expensive in my
hand.
"MauriceтАФnext door." He inclined his head slightly toward 407.
"Isn't he the one who was killed in an accident last night?"
He blew a stream of smoke from pursed lips and tapped his cigarette on an alabaster ashtray. "Yes,"
he said.
"How long had Maurice and Detweiler known each other?тАЭ
"Not long."
"How long?"
He snuffed his cigarette out on pure-white alabaster and sat so prim and pristine I would have bet his
feces came out wrapped in cellophane. He shrugged his eyebrows again. "Maurice picked him up
somewhere the other night."
"Which night?"
He thought a moment. "Thursday, I think. Yes, Thursday."
"Was Detweiler a hustler?"
He crossed his legs like a Forties pin-up and dangled his Roman sandal. His lips twitched scornfully.
"If he was, he would've starved. He was deformed"
"Maurice didn't seem to mind." He sniffed and lit another cigarette. "When did Detweiler leave?"
He shrugged. "I saw him yesterday afternoon. I was out last night . . . until quite late."
"How did they get along? Did they quarrel or fight?"
"I have no idea. I only saw them in the hall a couple of times. Maurice and I were ... not close." He
stood, fidgety. "There's really not anything I can tell you. Why don't you ask David and Murray. They
and Maurice are... were thick as thieves."
"David and Murray?"
"Across the hall. 408."
I stood up. "I'll do that. Thank you very much." I looked at the plate-glass doors. I guess it would be