"Lewis Padgett - Compliments of the Author" - читать интересную книгу автора (Padgett Lewis)

Tracy grinned. "Sure. I believe it. So do lots of other people. Like Ina Phairson."
Gwinn didn't turn a hair. "Such things are necessary in my profession."
"Rather tough on Ina Phairson, though. And it'd look bad in the papers. In fact, it'd look awful."
"It would mean the gas chamber, or at best a long prison term. I know. Unfortunately, there's nothing I can do
about it."
Tracy took out the photostats and laid them on the table. He didn't say anything. Gwinn shuffled through the
documents, nodding. His thick lips pursed.
"You have all the evidence, I see. The trouble is that I can't pay blackmail. It isn't allowed."
"Blackmail's an ugly word," Tracy said. "Let's call it a dividend. Five thousand bucks and this evidence goes up
the spout. I'll raise my price tomorrow."
Gwinn said, "You don't understand. I made a pact with the devil some years ago, and there were certain terms in
the contract. One of them is that I'm not allowed to pay blackmail."
"Suit yourself." Tracy shrugged. "You can keep those photostats. I have the originals, of course. There'll be a
story about you in tomorrow's Journal."
"NoтАФno. I don't want that." Gwinn glanced worriedly at the book before him, and closed it with a snap.
 Tracy's face didn't change, but a new look came into his eyes. That small volume had the look of a diary, or an
account book. It would be interesting to thumb through it. There might be names, facts, and figures, all of which would
be useful and perhaps profitable.
The book had a plain cloth cover, and on the front was a small white oval against the brown. In gold script was
engraved, "Baldwin Gwinn." Tracy read the name upside down.
"I haven't all night," he said. "Give me an answer. I don't care what it is. I'll act accordingly."
Gwinn fingered his thick lower lip. "It's no use, of course," he said under his breath. "StillтАФ"
He threw a handful of nothing at the fireplace, and flames blazed up with blue brilliance. Then he plucked a wax
figurine out of empty air and examined it thoughtfully. It was about six inches high, and was a perfect replica of Tracy.
He threw it into the fire.
"I've heard of that," Tracy said. "But I don't believe it."
"Then it won't work," Gwinn muttered, but waited, nevertheless. For a brief moment Tracy felt uncomfortably
warm. He didn't show it. He grinned tightly, and the feeling went away.


Then, without warning, there was a third person in the room. His name was Andy Monk, and two years ago he had
died at the hands of the law, as a result of a feature story Tracy had written. Monk wouldn't pay blackmail, either. And
Tracy had always been afraid of the man and his handiness with a knife. For months, till Monk was captured, he had
gone in fear of shadows.
Monk was a shadow now, and Tracy knew that. Hypnosis was old stuff. But the hatred blazing in the man's eyes
was horribly disturbing.
Monk had a gun, and he fired it at Tracy. The bullets weren't real, of course. Tracy braced himself against the
impact; almost to his surprise, he realized that he was trembling violently. Hypnotism, butтАФ
Monk threw away his gun and took out a long-bladed knife. Tracy had always been afraid of that knife. He tried
to look through the phantom, but Monk was visibly, if not tangibly, real. Maybe he was tangible, after all. Bullets were
one matter. Ghost bullets. A knife was another, somehow. Blue firelight rippled up the blade.
Tracy didn't want even an intangible knife slicing at his throat. He was scared now. His heart was pounding
violently. He hastily took out his automatic and said hoarsely, "Turn it off, Gwinn. Quick!"
He couldn't see Gwinn, because the room was very dark, and Monk was plunging forward, laughing, the knife
driving up viciously. Tracy chewed his lip, gave back a step, and fired. Instantly he regretted the weakness.
He regretted it even more as Monk vanished, and he saw Gwinn slumped in his chair, the top of his head blown
off.
The magician's eyes were wide open, but unseeing. Tracy stood quite motionless for several minutes breathing
hard. Then he shoved the gun back in his pocket, stepped forward, and picked up the brown book from the table. He
didn't touch the body. He took out his handkerchief and wiped the doorknobs as he went out of the house, and,