Killer in Silk. H. Vernor Dixon

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СКАЧАТЬ transition from free and easy amateur lying into professional writing had been so easy that he was hardly aware of having made a change. The great difference was principally in the larger audience. He was forced to become more critical and selective in the tales he put together. He was also forced to broaden his understanding of human nature, and had a better idea of what made people tick than a conference of psychiatrists. The ability to analyze, appraise and judge became instinctive with him. It was a talent that was never at rest and was always at work during his every waking moment.

      Ordinarily, when he was convalescing from one of his binges, he suffered a state of depression so low that he walked on the brink of suicide. He had never made the attempt, he had never held a gun to his temple and he had never stood on the edge of a cliff, but mentally he had been so close so often that a grain of sand could have tilted the scales into the abyss.

      On this occasion, however, a new element was introduced into his convalescence that shoved the old problem of self into the background. His creative faculties wrested depression from his shoulders and settled excitedly on the questions posed by Irene Wilson. It was undoubtedly the best medicine that could have been given to him.

      When Dr. Rigsby arrived, just before the dinner hour, he was amazed to find his patient in far better spirits than he had anticipated. He suspected that Morgan had started drinking again, but found that not to be true and was more puzzled than ever.

      He gave Morgan a hasty examination and said, “You’ve snapped out of it all right, but there’s a lot of damage to be repaired. You need sleep—”

      “I need sleep like I need a hole in the head. Rest, yes, but all I’ve been doing is sleeping.”

      “But not quite the sort of sleep you need. The main thing is food. You can eat solids from now on. Also drink a lot of milk and fruit juices between meals. I’ll tell Carl what to prepare for you.” He snapped his bag closed, studied Morgan, and said, “Mrs. Wilson tells me your name is O’Keefe and that you’re a writer.”

      “That’s right.”

      “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of you.”

      “Don’t get snobbish about it. You’re only one small unit of the largest organization in the world, the hundreds of millions who have never heard of O’Keefe.”

      The doctor chuckled and said, “I see you have a sense of humor.”

      “Don’t kid yourself, my friend. What passes for humor has its source in my bile. But I’ll bet you’re quite a card when it comes to flipping butter pats around at the Rotary luncheons.”

      The doctor’s amiability vanished. He remembered having flipped butter pats at a Rotary luncheon and his face reddened. “Well,” he grumbled, “you’re getting along. A few more days and you’ll be out of here.”

      “I’ll hate to leave. This place has such an intriguing atmosphere. For the past hour or so I’ve been enjoying myself by wondering where she killed him: here in this room, in the hallway, on the stairs, in the study? No, not the study. I don’t know why it is, but in fiction the corpse is always found in the study. Never in real life. When a gal scrags a man she doesn’t give a damn where she is and she certainly wouldn’t do it in the study, or even be found dead there herself. The latter is a rather dubious pun, my eminent physician.”

      The doctor chewed at his lower lip and his scowl deepened. “Carl wouldn’t have told you.”

      “No. The cleaner was here a little while ago.”

      “He told you the whole story?”

      Morgan shook his head. “All he said was that my benefactress had shot her husband to death here in this very house. He seemed quite elated about it. At least one of his customers has distinguished herself in the realm of higher dramatics. You can’t say that about everyone. But tell me, Doctor, were you in on the Wilson affair?”

      The doctor said stiffly, “No. I was the family physician, but I was not in on the affair, as you put it. It was an accident, you know.”

      “No, I didn’t know. An accident, you say? Now you’re ruining everything. How did it happen?”

      The doctor glanced at his watch and sighed. “Sorry, but I don’t have the time. However, you can read all about it right here. Mrs. Wilson has a leather-bound scrapbook filled with newspaper clippings of the tragedy. She keeps it in the study. Ask Carl to bring it to you.”

      Morgan squinted narrowly at the doctor, not quite sure he had heard right. “You mean to tell me she keeps a scrapbook about her accidental killing of her own husband?”

      “That is correct I have tried for years to get her to destroy it. She refuses. Frankly, Mr. O’Keefe, I have known Irene since she was a child, but I must admit I don’t understand her. But then,” he sighed, “none of us ever really understands another person.”

      Morgan said, “I do. I’m beginning to understand you only too well. I think you’re strictly a society doctor and you can probably guess what that means in my dictionary.”

      Dr. Rigsby gasped, and then roared, “By God, but you’re impertinent!”

      Morgan laughed. “Not impertinent, Doctor. Impertinence implies a lack of due respect of the humble toward his superior. Of the two of us, therefore, only you could be the impertinent one.”

      The doctor gasped again, spun about on his heel and slammed the door as he went out. Morgan scratched his head and wondered, Now, why did I do that? The doctor was probably a nice old slob. He shrugged and forgot the incident.

      Carl came into the room with his first full-course meal, and Morgan devoured it with a ravenous appetite. After having eaten he knew that he would sleep well, so decided against asking Carl for the scrapbook that night. And as long as he still knew little or nothing about what had taken place, he could make up all sorts of dreams and fantasies that would help him to sleep and stave off the depression that was normally his at that point.

      He remained by the windows until it was dark, and then, as his lids began to droop, he got into bed. He heard the door open softly and turned his head to see Irene Wilson standing in the shaft of light at the doorway. She asked softly, “Are you awake, Mr. O’Keefe?”

      “I just got into bed.”

      “Oh. I’m sorry—”

      “It’s okay. What’s on your mind?”

      “Well, nothing important, really. I just wanted to see how you were doing. Carl said that you were in such good spirits—”

      He chuckled softly and said, “Forget it. Would you like to kiss me good night, Mrs. Wilson?”

      “I’m afraid I don’t—”

      “On the other hand, maybe you’d better not. That gown you’re wearing may inspire the rise of something loftier than my mind.”

      She gasped and slammed the door. Morgan rolled over on his side and went to sleep.

      Irene started angrily down the hallway, but as she came opposite a gilt-framed full-length mirror she stopped for a moment to stare at her reflection. Contrary to what most men thought of all women, Irene did not clothe herself simply to attract men. Prior to Jay Wilson’s СКАЧАТЬ