Killer in Silk. H. Vernor Dixon

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ and he sighed, “God knows why you do it. Jay was never an alcoholic, you know.”

      “I’ve known that for years.”

      “Then why do you persist? If you feel you must help them, just give them some money and send them on their way. One of these days you’re going to have trouble, bringing bums like that into your own home.”

      She arched her eyebrows and said quietly, “I have learned a great deal about alcoholics. When they reach that last step where they must have someone else’s help they are in no condition to be trouble to anyone.”

      “But don’t you allow them to convalesce here for a few days?”

      “Of course.”

      “In which case, they get back on their feet and—”

      She interrupted. “They aren’t like ordinary sick people. I’ve never known one yet who wasn’t humble and grateful and—” She paused and thought of Morgan and of the remark he had made while she was standing in his doorway, and suddenly the incongruous humor in his words struck her and she giggled.

      Tina stared at her. She had heard Irene laugh a few times during the past years, but never giggle. A giggle was something new.

      Intuitively she said, “This new bum doesn’t fit what you were about to tell us.”

      Irene shook her head. “No, he doesn’t. And he’s not a bum. He’s not like the others in any way, except for his binges. All the others have been middle-aged or old, strictly Howard Street characters. Mr. O’Keefe is something quite different. He is about in his mid-thirties, I think; he’s rather handsome in a hawklike way, and there’s nothing humble about him. In fact, he’s decidedly sarcastic and sometimes downright insulting, even to me.”

      Nicky gulped at his drink and looked at her with surprise. “You’re taking him in and putting him on his feet and he still has the temerity to insult you?”

      “He certainly has. I think O’Keefe’s a man who would much rather have your hatred than your love. Then he knows where he stands and he doesn’t have to become involved.”

      Tina protested, “Now, Irene—”

      Nicky chuckled and said, “You’ll never get Tina to believe there’s anyone in the world like that.”

      Irene noticed that other guests were drifting over to listen, as she said, “Well, this man is that way. And the things he says about himself— One moment he seems to be the supreme egoist and the next moment he destroys himself as casually as if he were talking about a stranger. And I have a quite definite impression that he enjoys lying about himself. As I said before, he’s far from being a bum, so I suppose he doesn’t want me to know who he really is.” She smiled. “He claims to be a writer. He says he writes dreary little books about dreary little people. Imagine.”

      Everyone smiled except Nicky and Tina. They stared at each other with the same thought in mind. Nicky finished his drink in one gulp and swung his eyes back to Irene. “I know this is impossible,” he said, “but could this O’Keefe’s first name be Morgan?”

      Irene stared. “Why—why, yes. How did you—”

      Nicky snorted and said, “Oh, no. This is crazy. Morgan O’Keefe?”

      Tina cried, “But it has to be! That description, Nicky!”

      Irene said excitedly, “My goodness, do you know the man?”

      Nicky shook his head, amazed and baffled. “No. We’ve never met him. It’s just that he happens to be my favorite writer. Tina can’t stand his work. He hits too hard and too low for her tastes, but I’ve always been crazy about him. Morgan O’Keefe, here in this house! My God, that’s hard to believe. And a drunk at that. That’s even harder to swallow. But it must be the same guy. Last I heard, though, he was living in Los Angeles.”

      Irene said, “That’s right. He came up from there only recently, about two weeks ago.” All the guests had crowded around her so Irene explained why Morgan had left Los Angeles and what had happened to him in San Francisco. She felt a little guilty, as if she were exploiting a confidence, but she went on anyway, pleased by the reaction of her guests. She told them what little else she knew about Morgan and ended by saying, “So he wasn’t lying, after all. I had no idea I was taking care of a celebrity.”

      Nicky corrected her, “Not a celebrity, Irene. I doubt if very many people have ever heard of him. He’s not a popular writer. People who read him either go crazy over his work or hate the guy. I’m afraid it’s mostly the latter. He has one glaring deficiency, a total lack of sympathy for the ordinary guy, or what’s known as the common man. If he ever corrected that fault he could become a literary giant overnight. But to think of him here in this house, a broken-down alcoholic—God!”

      Tina said, “But you must have read him, Irene.”

      “No, darling. The name doesn’t register with me at all.”

      “But don’t you remember? About three or four years ago I gave you a book of his. I said at the time that I couldn’t understand why Nicky liked him so much, so I wanted to see what you thought.”

      “I guess I’ve forgotten all about it. Did I return the book?”

      “No. It was a gift.”

      “In that case, I must still have it. Maybe it’s here in the study.”

      All of them turned to the book shelves. Nicky picked it out at once. “The Long Day’s End,” he read aloud, “by Morgan O’Keefe.” He handed the book to Irene. “There you are. Now you’ll have to read it. And, believe me, I’ll give ten to one you don’t like it.”

      Irene turned the book over and looked at the author’s photograph on the back of the jacket. Though his face was a bit fuller, there was no doubting that he was the man in her apartment. She felt suddenly as if a secret door had opened somewhere and a chill wind was blowing on her back.

      The guests examined the book and passed it around. Nicky held forth at great length concerning the man and his works and the party did not break up until an hour or so later than usual. All of them were vastly intrigued by Irene’s guest. They demanded that Irene produce him for inspection before she turned him loose, and finally she said she would let them all know as soon as he was back on his feet. Perhaps a little dinner party, or a luncheon, or a Sunday brunch, where they could all meet him.

      Even Glenna Wilson was intrigued. She and Frank were the last to leave, as usual. Glenna always went directly out and down to the car, anxious to quit the house as quickly as possible. But this time she paused at the door. She was afraid that she would not be included in the group that would meet O’Keefe.

      She hated to ask a favor, but she drawled, “Don’t forget to include me, Irene. And Frank, too, of course. We’d like to meet this oddity of yours, too.”

      Frank said musingly, “He does sound interesting. You will call us, Irene?”

      If it had been Glenna alone, Irene would have ignored the request. But she could not refuse Frank, and so promised to call them. As she closed the door, though, she wondered suddenly what Morgan O’Keefe would have to say about meeting her friends.

      She took his СКАЧАТЬ