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

another twenty minutes and then follow him when he did leave. If he went anywhere but his apartment, he
was to come and let me know, quick.
I let myself into number seven with the master key. The drapes were closed, and so I took a chance
and turned on the bathroom light. Detweiler's possessions were meager. Eight shirts, six pairs of pants,
and a light jacket hung in the closet. The shirts and jacket had been altered to allow for the hump. Except
for that, the closet was bare. The bathroom contained nothing out of the ordinaryтАФjust about the same
as mine. The kitchen had one plastic plate, one plastic cup, one plastic glass, one plastic bowl, one small
folding skillet, one small folding sauce pan, one metal spoon, one metal fork, and a medium-sized kitchen
knife. All of it together would barely fill a shoebox.
The suitcase, still beside the couch, hadn't been unpackedтАФexcept for the clothes hanging in the
closet and the kitchen utensils. There was underwear, socks, an extra pair of shoes, an unopened ream of
paper, a bunch of other stuff necessary for his writing, and a dozen or so paperbacks. The books were
rubber-stamped with the name of a used-book store on Santa Monica Boulevard. They were a mixture:
science fiction, mysteries, biographies, philosophy, several by Colin Wilson.
There was also a carbon copy of the story he'd just finished. The return address on the first page was
a box number at the Hollywood post office. The title of the story was "Deathsong." I wished I'd had time
to read it.
All in all, I didn't find anything. Except for the books and the deck of cards, there was nothing of
Andrew Detweiler personally in the whole apartment. I hadn't thought it possible for anyone to lead such
a turnip existence.
I looked around to make sure I hadn't disturbed anything, turned off the bathroom light, and got in
the closet, leaving the door open a crack. It was the only possible place to hide. I sincerely hoped
Detweiler wouldn't need anything out of it before I found out what was going on. If he did, the only thing
I could do was confront him with what Td found out. And then what, Mallory, a big guilty confession?
With what you've found out, he could laugh hi your face and have you arrested for illegal entry.
And what about this, Mallory? What if someone died nearby tonight while you were with Detweiler;
what if he comes straight to his apartment and goes to bed; what if he wakes up hi the morning feeling
fine; what if nothing is going on, you son of a bitch?
It was so dark in there with the curtains drawn that I couldn't see a thing. I left the closet and opened
them a little on the front window. It didn't let in a lot of light, but it was enough. Maybe Detweiler
wouldn't notice. I went back to the closet and waited.
Half an hour later the curtains over the barred open window moved. I had squatted down in the
closet and wasn't looking in that direction, but the movement caught my eye. Something hopped in the
window and scooted across the floor and went behind the couch. I only got a glimpse of it, but it might
have been a cat. It was probably a stray looking for food or hiding from a dog. Okay, cat, you don't
bother me and I won't bother you. I kept my eye on the couch, but it didn't show itself again.
Detweiler didn't show for another hour. By that time I was sitting flat on the floor trying to keep my
legs from cramping. My position wasn't too graceful if he happened to look in the closet, but it was too
late to get up.
He came in quickly and bolted the door behind him. He didn't notice the open curtain. He glanced
around, clicking his tongue softly. His eyes caught on something at the end of the couch. He smiled. At
the cat? He began unfastening his shirt, fumbling at the buttons in his haste. He slipped off the shirt and
tossed it on the back of a chair.
There were straps across his chest.
He turned toward the suitcase, his back to me. The hump was artificial, made of something like foam
rubber. He unhooked the straps, opened the suitcase, and tossed the hump in. He said something, too
soft for me to catch, and lay face down on the couch with his feet toward me. The light from the opened
curtain fell on him. His back was scarred, little white lines like scratches grouped around a hole.
He had a hole in his back, between his shoulder blades, an un-healed wound big enough to stick your
finger in.