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

"He always has an alibi, huh?"
I got out of bed and headed for the bathroom. "That's suspicious in itself."
When I came out she said, "Why?"
"Innocent people usually don't have alibis, especially not one every three days."
"Which is probably why innocent people get put hi jail so often."
I chuckled and sat on the edge of the bed. "You may be right."
"Bert, do that again."
I looked at her over my shoulder. "Do what?"
"Go to the bathroom."
"I don't think I can. My bladder holds only so much."
"I don't mean that. Walk over to the bathroom door."
I gave her a suspicious frown, got up, and walked over to the bathroom door. I turned around,
crossed my arms, and leaned against the doorframe. "Well?"
She grinned. "You've got a cute rear end. Almost as cute as Hurt Reynolds'. Maybe he's twins."
"What?" I practically screamed.
"Maybe Andrew Detweiler is twins. One of them commits the murders and the other establishes the
alibis."
"Twin vampires?"
 She frowned. "That is a bit much, isn't it? Had they discovered blood groups in Bram Stoker's day?"
I got back in bed and pulled the sheet up to my waist, leaning beside her against the headboard. "I
haven't the foggiest idea."
"That's another way vampires are stupid. They never check the victim's blood group. The wrong
blood group can kill you."
"Vampires don't exactly get transfusions."
"It all amounts to the same thing, doesn't it?" I shrugged. "Oh, well," she sighed, "vampires are
stupid." She reached over and plucked at the hair on my chest. "I haven't had an indecent proposition in
hours," she grinned.
So I made one.
Wednesday morning I made a dozen phone calls. Of the nine victims I knew about, I was able to find
the information on six.
All six had the same blood group.
I lit a cigarette and leaned back in the swivel chair. The whole thing was spinning around in my head.
I'd found a pattern for the victims, but I didn't know if it was the pattern. It just didn't make sense.
Maybe Detweiler was a vampire.
"Mallory," I said out loud, "you're cracking up."
Miss Tremaine glanced up. "If I were you, I'd listen to you," she said poker-faced.
The next morning I staggered out of bed at 6 A.M. I took a cold shower, shaved, dressed, and put
Murine in my eyes. They still felt like IтАЩd washed them in rubber cement. Mrs. Bloomfeld had kept me up
until two the night before, doing all the night spots in Santa Monica with some dude I hadn't identified yet.
When they checked into a motel, I went home and went to bed.
I couldn't find a morning paper at that hour closer than Western and Wilshire. The story was on page
seven. Fortunately they found the body in time for the early edition. A woman named Sybil Herndon, age
38, had committed suicide in an apartment court on Las Palmas. (Detweiler hadn't gone very far. The
address was just around the corner from the Almsbury.) She had cut her wrists on a piece of broken
mirror. She had been discovered about eleven-thirty when the manager went over to ask her to turn
down the volume on her television set.
It was too early to drop around, and so I ate breakfast, hoping this was one of the times Detweiler
stuck around for more than three days. Not for a minute did I doubt he would be living at the apartment
court on Las Palmas, or not far away.
The owner-manager of the court was one of those creatures peculiar to Hollywood. She must have