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

been a starlet in the Twenties or Thirties, but success had eluded her. So she had tried to freeze herself in
time. She still expected, at any moment, a call from The Studio. But her flesh hadn't cooperated. Her hair
was the color of tarnished copper, and the fire-engine-red lipstick was painted far past her thin lips. Her
watery eyes peered at me through a Lone Ranger mask of Maybelline on a plaster-white face. Her dress
had obviously been copied from the wardrobe of Norma Shearer.
"Yes?" She had a breathless voice. Her eyes quickly traveled the length of my body. That happened
often enough to keep me feeling good, but this time it gave me a queasy sensation, like I was being
measured for a mummy case. I showed her my ID, and asked if I could speak to her about one of the
tenants.
"Of course. Come on in. I'm Lorraine Nesbitt" Was there a flicker of disappointment that I hadn't
recognized the name? She stepped back, holding the door for me. I could tell that detectives, private or
otherwise, asking about her tenants wasn't a new thing. I walked into the doilied room, and she looked at
me from a hundred directions. The faded photographs covered every level surface and clung to the walls
like leeches. She had been quite a dishтАФforty years ago. She saw me looking at the photos and smiled.
The make-up around her mouth cracked.
"Which one do you want to ask me about?" The smile vanished and the cracks closed.
"Andrew Detweiler." She looked blank. "Young, good-looking, with a hunchback."
The cracks opened. "Oh, yes. He's only been here a few days. The name had slipped my mind."
"He's still here?"
 "Oh, yes." She sighed. "It's so unfair for such a beautiful young man to have a physical impairment."
"What can you tell me about him?"
"Not much. He's only been here since Sunday night. He's very handsome, like an angel, a dark angel.
But it wasn't his handsomeness that attracted me." She smiled. "I've seen many handsome men in my day,
you know. It's difficult to verbalize. He has such an incredible innocence. A lost, doomed look that Byron
must have had. A vulnerability that makes you want to shield and protect him. I don't know for sure what
it is, but it struck a chord in my soul. Soul," she mused. "Maybe that's it. He wears his soul on his face."
She nodded, as if to herself. "A dangerous thing to do." She looked back up at me. "If that quality,
whatever it is, would photograph, he would become a star overnight, whether he could act or not. Except
тАФof courseтАФfor his infirmity."
Lorraine Nesbitt, I decided, was as nutty as a fruitcake.
Someone entered the room. He stood leaning against the doorframe, looking at me with sleepy eyes.
He was about twenty-five, wearing tight chinos without underwear and a tee shirt. His hair was tousled
and cut unfashionably short. He had a good-looking Kansas face. The haircut made me think he was new
in town, but the eyes said he wasn't. I guess the old broad liked his hair that way.
She simpered. "Oh, Johnny! Come on in. This detective was asking about Andrew Detweiler in
number seven." She turned back to me. "This is my protege, Johnny PeacockтАФa very talented young
man. I'm arranging for a screen test as soon as Mr. Goldwyn returns my calls." She lowered her eyelids
demurely. "I was a Goldwyn Girl, you know."
Funny, I thought Goldwyn was dead. Maybe he wasn't.
Johnny took the news of his impending stardom with total unconcern. He moved to the couch and sat
down, yawning. "Detweiler? Don't think I ever laid eyes on the man. What'd he do?"
"Nothing. Just routine." Obviously he thought I was a police detective. No point in changing his mind.
"Where was he last night when the Herndon woman died?"
"In his room, I think. I heard his typewriter. He wasn't feeling well," Lorraine Nesbitt said. Then she
sucked air through her teeth and clamped her fingers to her scarlet lips. "Do you think he had something
to do with that?"
Detweiler had broken his pattern. He didn't have an alibi. I couldn't believe it
"Oh, Lorraine," Johnny grumbled.
I turned to him. "Do you know where Detweiler was?"
He shrugged. "No idea."