Стив Хокенсмит - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 6, June 2006

The key word was pneumonia. Perhaps it was a pun, I decided after several moments of bleary-eyed pondering. What did pneumonia sound like? Like nothing on the planet Earth, I decided, and said the hell with Doctor Freud and his insane theories, turned off the lights, and tried to go back to sleep. Just as I was drifting off, a wispy little voice whispered the word mnemonic into my left ear, and that sat me back up and turned the lights on again. Mnemonic was one of those words I never spoke out loud because it raised far too many eyebrows. Still half asleep and wondering how much tequila Elizabeth Anderson had gotten into that one margarita, I wearily asked my unconscious what could the word mnemonic possibly have to do with a weird character named Landmaier and a spook named Max Nome.

The answer woke me completely. Landmaier was an amateur magician and memory expert who did complicated mind-reading acts on a professional level. Memory experts depend heavily on mnemonic devices to help them remember things. When David Landmaier lay dying on a kitchen floor and tried to write out the name of his murderer, his dying brain might have played a trick on him. Instead of the man’s name, it might have fed him one of the many mnemonic patterns that Landmaier associated with that particular name, a pattern off a list with which Elizabeth Anderson had once helped him. Maxnome could be a mnemonic device for remembering something about a man, something with seven letters in it — or seven digits.

I stared at the telephone beside my bed and picked it up gingerly, then dialed the letters M-A-X-N-O-M-E. I heard several rings, then the crisp, professional voice of an operator answered. “What number are you calling, please?”

“Just a minute,” I mumbled foolishly, not knowing what number I was calling. I worked it out from the dial. “Operator, I want 629-6663.”

Several of the longer seconds of my life dragged by, then the girl came back on. “That number has been changed to 629-4562.”

I thanked the operator, then dialed the new number carefully. The phone rang seven times before it was answered by a sleepy, angry, and familiar voice.

“This had better be damned important, fellow,” he said. “Who’s this?”

“It’s your old friend, Mike Karlins,” I said to Dean Ness. “I want to come over and see you about Elizabeth. I think I’ve worked out her problem.”

“That’s important enough.” He sounded delighted. “Come right on over, old buddy. I’ll pour you a double for that.”

I told Dean I’d be right over, hung up, and stared sadly at the phone for a few seconds. “You’d better make it a triple, Dean,” I said to the empty room, then picked up the phone again, and dialed the police.

Originally published in AHMM, May 1971. Copiright © by H.S.D. Publications, Inc., reprinted by permission of the author.