Джеймс Суэйн - The Man Who Cheated Death

“Is she going to die?” Jan asked quietly.

“I’m afraid so. It puts me in a bad situation. I know what our killer looks like, only the law prevents me from sharing his composite with the media.”

“What do you want me to do?” Hardare asked.

“Here’s what I’m thinking. I’d like to take you to where the girl was found. We’ll have a newspaper reporter there. You do your psychic routine, and produce the sketch, and give it to the reporter. That way, it didn’t come from me.”

“Is that ethical?” Hardare asked.

Wondero grew red in the face. “Maybe not. But it’s the only thing I can think of. Death will strike again, and soon. That’s his pattern. I’ve got to do whatever I can to stop him.”

“You’re saying a life is at stake.”

“Yes.”

“Let me see the sketch,” Hardare said.

Wondero produced the artist’s composite and handed it to the magician. He waited expectantly, hoping Hardare would say yes.

“She got a better look at him than I did,” Hardare said under his breath.

“Will you do it?” Wondero asked.

Hardare looked at his wife. “What do you think?”

“If it will help the police catch this killer, then yes, you need to do it,” Jan said.

“All right. I’ll do it. But with one caveat,” Hardare said.

“Name it, Wondero said.

“This is the last psychic stunt I’m going to do. You’re on your own after this. Understood? No more late-night visits to my hotel, or sneaking up on me unannounced.”

Wondero was beaming, and he clasped Hardare on the arm.

“You have my word,” the detective promised him.

It was eleven o”clock in the morning when Myrtle Jones banged on Eugene Osbourne’s front door for the second time in as many days. He appeared in a bathrobe, his eyes heavy with sleep. Inside the house a radio newscaster droned on, sounding like an old movie newsreel.

“Guess what I’ve got baking in the oven,” she said, winking mischievously. “That’s right: my heavenly chocolate cake.”

On the sidewalk sat Mr. Kozlowski in a wheelchair, bundled up like a mummy. She handed Eugene a brown paper bag, the smell of warm tollhouse cookies jump-starting his senses. Eugene took one from the bag and bit into it, tasting chocolaty sweet perfection.

“I was hoping you would join us for lunch. Mr. Kozlowski is so looking forward to you coming.”

Eugene hesitated, his attention diverted by a special news flash on the radio. A school bus had overturned, children hurt.

“Can we watch television?”

Myrtle Jones was taken aback. “Well, I suppose we could.”

“All right,” he said, closing the door in her face.

Lunch was served in the musty living room on TV trays. Myrtle had outdone herself; lobster bisque, chicken pot pies made from scratch, miniature vegetables, and a bottle of wine. Eugene, wearing a fresh shirt and cologne, sat directly across from the TV, his eyes glued to the flickering screen.

“Eugene, do you have any family?” Myrtle asked while spoon feeding Mr. Kozlowski.

“Not anymore,” he said.

“Oh. Well, I’m sure you have lots of friends.”

“Just one.”

“Does he ever visit? I’d be happy to invite him—”

“He’s in prison,” Eugene said.

“Mr. Kozlowski says you remind him of a steam fitter he once employed years ago.”

Eugene looked suspiciously at her, then Mr. Kozlowski. “I didn’t hear him say anything.”

“Mr. Kozlowski talks with his fingers,” she said, showing him the tiny computer taped to the arm of the wheelchair. “He types in what he wants to say, and I read the screen.”

Eugene lifted his head to stare at the tiny screen. Printed across it were the words NICE TO MEET YOU.

“Same here,” Eugene said.

THANKS FOR HELPING YESTERDAY

“No problem.”

Myrtle stacked up their dirty dishes and disappeared into the kitchen.

YOU’RE VERY STRONG

“Uh-huh.”

BET THE GIRLS LOVE IT

“Not all of them.”

I SEE YOU BRING THEM HOME. REAL LADY KILLER

“Maybe I should invite you over sometime,” Eugene said.

TO DO WHAT? I’M EIGHTY FOUR.

“You can watch.”

The dessert was better than promised, and Eugene licked his fork after each scrumptious bite. He watched Mr. Kozlowski grow animated with his over-sized portion, his toothless mouth working vigorously. They both said yes to seconds.

Over decaf they watched the last half of a sitcom called Hugo. Hugo was an overgrown alien rodent who had been adopted by the average family next door. Orange, hairy, and shaped like a pear, Hugo was a cheap-looking puppet. No one in their right minds would have thought that he came from anywhere but a toy store, except for the people on the show with him. On today’s episode the Tanners, Hugo’s adopted family, helped Hugo deal with a cold.

OH BOY. ALIEN SNOT JOKES

“Mr. Kozlowski has a rather caustic sense of humor,” Myrtle explained, feeding him more cake.

“What would you do with Hugo?” Eugene asked him.

DROWN HIM IN A GARBAGE CAN

Embarrassed, Myrtle said, “Mister Kozlowski!”

OR FEED HIM RAT POISON

“That’s the ticket,” Eugene said.

WHAT WOULD YOU DO?

“I think a minute in the microwave would do the trick.”

ALIEN CASSEROLE

“Sure. They could serve him to the neighbors.”

STAY TUNED

A commercial filled the screen, and Myrtle lowered the volume with the remote. “Eugene, what happened to your dog?”

Staring at his plate, Eugene said, “He died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you getting another?”

Eugene had gone to the Humane Society that morning but been unable to find the kind of dog he wanted. “Eventually.”

“Are you looking for a particular breed?”

How did he describe the dog he wanted? It had to be ugly and fierce and beautiful all at the same time. A dog that no one else wanted; a dog that hated life as much as he did.

“I’ll know it when I see it,” Eugene said.

Dancing on the screen was a giant chicken selling used cars, then a teaser for a noon news show. Reaching across Mr. Kozlowski’s tray, Eugene picked up the remote control and hit the volume. “If you don’t mind.”

“Why no, of course not,” Myrtle said.

Rising from his chair, Eugene planted himself in front of the TV, his face a foot from the screen. The commercial ended, and the face of an attractive red-haired newscaster filled the screen.

“This is Jayne Hunter,” the newscaster said. “On today’s News at Noon, learn if the water you’re drinking is contaminated, why the Lakers are underdogs for the upcoming playoffs, and how a famous magician is helping police track down L.A.’s worst serial killer. These stories and more, coming up.”

Another commercial danced across the screen. Eugene balled his fists in rage. This was all wrong. The hooker he’d murdered last night should have been one of the stories, not a piece about Hardare, the Vegas lounge lizard.

“How about more cake?” Myrtle asked.

“No,” Eugene replied, staring straight ahead.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m full,” he snapped.

The news came on. Hardare was the lead story, and was standing behind the Las Palmas hotel where he’d dumped Tawny Starr. A reporter shoved a mike into the magician’s face.

“Tell us what you’re about to do,” the reporter said.

“A woman was murdered here last night,” Hardare explained. “A residue of that violent act still lingers. I’m going to try to capture that residue, and help the police catch the killer.”

“Baloney,” Eugene shouted at the screen.

A clipboard was placed into the magician’s hands. Hardare showed the top page to the camera. It was blank. Handing the clipboard to the reporter, he removed a cigarette lighter and a piece of tissue from his pocket. He lit the tissue by its end, and let it burn in the palm of his hand. When it was no more than ash, he smeared it across the face of the clipboard.