Read Online Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense by Linda Landrigan - Free Book Online

lights, and the applause, and …
    â€œGood morning, Nick.”
    The voice, the hated voice.
    He stopped abruptly. “Good morning, Mr. Atkins,” he said.
    Atkins was smiling. The smile was a thin curl on his narrow face, a thin bloodless curl beneath the ridiculously tenuous mustache on the cleaving edge of the hatchet face. The manager’s hair was black, artfully combed to conceal a balding patch. He wore a gray pinstripe suit. Like a caricature of all store managers everywhere, he wore a carnation in his buttonhole. He continued smiling. The smile was infuriating.
    â€œReady for the last act?” he asked.
    â€œYes, Mr. Atkins.”
    â€œIt is the last act, isn’t it, Nick?” Atkins asked, smiling. “Final curtain comes down today, doesn’t it? All over after today. Everything reverts back to normal after today.”
    â€œYes, Mr. Atkins,” he said. “Today is the last act.”
    â€œBut no curtain calls, eh, Nick?”
    His name was not Nick. His name was Randolph Blair, a name that had blazed across the theatre marquees of four continents. Atkins knew this, and had probably known it the day he’d hired him. He knew it, and so the “Nick” was an additional barb, a reminder of his current status, a sledgehammer subtlety that shouted, “Lo, how the mighty have fallen!”
    â€œMy name is not Nick,” he said flatly.
    Atkins snapped his fingers. “That’s right, isn’t it? I keep forgetting. What is it again? Randolph Something? Clair? Flair? Shmair? What is your name, Nick?”
    â€œMy name is Randolph Blair,” he said. He fancied he said it with great dignity. He fancied he said it the way Hamlet would have announced that he was Prince of Denmark. He could remember the good days when the name Randolph Blair was the magic key to a thousand cities. He could remember hotel clerks with fluttering hands, maitre d’s hovering, young girls pulling at his clothing, even telephone operators suddenly growing respectful when they heard the name. Randolph Blair. In his mind, the name was spelled in lights. Randolph Blair. The lights suddenly flickered, and then dimmed. He felt the steel outline of the Luger against his belly. He smiled thinly.
    â€œYou know my name, don’t you, Mr. Atkins?”
    â€œYes,” Atkins said. “I know your name. I hear it sometimes.”
    His interest was suddenly piqued. “Do you?” he asked.
    â€œYes. I hear people ask, every now and then, ‘Say, whatever happened to Randolph Blair?’ I know your name.”
    He felt Atkins’s dart pierce his throat, felt the poison spread into his bloodstream. Whatever happened to Randolph Blair? A comedian had used the line on television not two weeks before, bringing down the house. Randolph Blair, the ever-popular Randolph Blair. A nothing now, a nobody, a joke for a television comic. A forgotten name, a forgotten face. But Atkins would remember. For eternity he would remember Randolph Blair’s name and the face and terrible power.
    â€œDon’t …” he started, and then stopped abruptly.
    â€œDon’t what?”
    â€œDon’t … don’t push me too far, Mr. Atkins.”
    â€œ Push you, Nick?” Atkins asked innocently.
    â€œStop that ‘Nick’ business!”
    â€œExcuse me , Mr. Blair,” Atkins said. “Excuse me . I forgot who I was talking to. I thought I was talking to an old drunk who’d managed to land himself a temporary job …”
    â€œStop it!”
    â€œâ€¦ for a few weeks. I forgot I was talking to Randolph Blair, the Randolph Blair, the biggest lush in …”
    â€œI’m not a drunk!” he shouted.
    â€œYou’re a drunk, all right,” Atkins said. “Don’t tell me about drunks. My father was one. A falling-down drunk. A screaming, hysterical drunk. I grew up with it, Nick. I watched the old man fight his imaginary