refusing to accept it. The accident, and the way it had wrecked his body, was all he could try to cope with. When the figure reared up to meet him from behind the car, his mind was as unable to grasp it as his body was incapable of defending itself. He stood there almost passively, gazing at a face that had no right to be called one, while the long blackened fingernails reached for his throat and finished what the fragments of glass had begun.
***
Sandy ate dinner with Graham's diary propped in front of her. Halfway through the Greek salad she remembered what he'd told her at her party that had filled all her rooms and almost driven out the cats. "The hunt's begun," he'd said, "and I can thank one of your profession." He'd tracked down the assistant editor of Tower of Fear. The editor's name was Norman Ross, she remembered now, and there it was on the second page of the notebook.
He lived outside Lincoln. She took the phone to the window seat and gazed down at the dark that was climbing the trees. Bogart and Bacall prowled the far side of the room while she tried to think of her best approach. "You aren't helping," she informed them, and buttoned the number.
The bell sounded unreal, more like a recording. A child's voice interrupted it and gabbled the number. "Who's there?"
"May I speak to Norman Ross?"
The receiver was dropped with a clatter. "It's a lady for Grandpa."
What Sandy guessed was a large family greeted this with ribald encouragement, in the midst of which a man said " Never drop the phone like that." Seconds later he was at the mouthpiece. "Who's speaking, please?"
"I'm a friend and colleague of Graham Nolan's."
"Sorry, doesn't mean a thing."
"This is Mr. Ross, is it?"
"It is, yes," he said as if she had threatened his manhood. "What are you selling?"
"I'm buying," she said, and wondered how much might be involved: presumably one of the film archives would pay. "I wanted to ask you about a film you worked on."
"Which film?"
"The one with Karloff and Lugosi."
"That thing again?" His response was so sharp it made the microphone buzz waspishly. "Yes, I know who your friend was now. You're wasting your time, I'm afraid. My father isn't well, and in any case he wouldn't be able to help."
Because of his irritability she had assumed he was the old man. "He did help Graham Nolan, I believe. All I want is to ask your father what he told Graham. I can't ask him, you see. He was killed."
"That's most regrettable, but still the answer's no. I won't have my father troubled. He's nervous enough as it is."
"I'm a film editor too. Perhaps when he's feeling better we could at least talk about his work."
"I doubt he would want to."
"May I give you my number in case he changes his mind?"
"If you must," he said, and interrupted her as soon as she had said it and her name. "I wish you people would let this wretched film stay buried. Isn't there already enough horror in the world?"
If his father had overheard that, she hoped he disagreed. "Do settle down," she pleaded with the cats. She must stop saying Graham had been killed; she had seen him jump. She tried some more early entries in the notebook, but these old folk seemed to go to bed early, and the retirement home in Birmingham was unobtainable. She felt dissatisfied, on edge. Placing the phone well out of reach, she read Umberto Eco until she was tired enough for bed.
In the middle of the night she had to grope her way to the toilet, half asleep. She was in bed again before she realized that she had been creeping through her own rooms as if she mustn't let herself be heard. She assumed she had still been in a dream, though one that she couldn't remember. The stealthy creaking of the trees beyond her window lulled her to sleep.
The more she knew about the
***
Sandy ate dinner with Graham's diary propped in front of her. Halfway through the Greek salad she remembered what he'd told her at her party that had filled all her rooms and almost driven out the cats. "The hunt's begun," he'd said, "and I can thank one of your profession." He'd tracked down the assistant editor of Tower of Fear. The editor's name was Norman Ross, she remembered now, and there it was on the second page of the notebook.
He lived outside Lincoln. She took the phone to the window seat and gazed down at the dark that was climbing the trees. Bogart and Bacall prowled the far side of the room while she tried to think of her best approach. "You aren't helping," she informed them, and buttoned the number.
The bell sounded unreal, more like a recording. A child's voice interrupted it and gabbled the number. "Who's there?"
"May I speak to Norman Ross?"
The receiver was dropped with a clatter. "It's a lady for Grandpa."
What Sandy guessed was a large family greeted this with ribald encouragement, in the midst of which a man said " Never drop the phone like that." Seconds later he was at the mouthpiece. "Who's speaking, please?"
"I'm a friend and colleague of Graham Nolan's."
"Sorry, doesn't mean a thing."
"This is Mr. Ross, is it?"
"It is, yes," he said as if she had threatened his manhood. "What are you selling?"
"I'm buying," she said, and wondered how much might be involved: presumably one of the film archives would pay. "I wanted to ask you about a film you worked on."
"Which film?"
"The one with Karloff and Lugosi."
"That thing again?" His response was so sharp it made the microphone buzz waspishly. "Yes, I know who your friend was now. You're wasting your time, I'm afraid. My father isn't well, and in any case he wouldn't be able to help."
Because of his irritability she had assumed he was the old man. "He did help Graham Nolan, I believe. All I want is to ask your father what he told Graham. I can't ask him, you see. He was killed."
"That's most regrettable, but still the answer's no. I won't have my father troubled. He's nervous enough as it is."
"I'm a film editor too. Perhaps when he's feeling better we could at least talk about his work."
"I doubt he would want to."
"May I give you my number in case he changes his mind?"
"If you must," he said, and interrupted her as soon as she had said it and her name. "I wish you people would let this wretched film stay buried. Isn't there already enough horror in the world?"
If his father had overheard that, she hoped he disagreed. "Do settle down," she pleaded with the cats. She must stop saying Graham had been killed; she had seen him jump. She tried some more early entries in the notebook, but these old folk seemed to go to bed early, and the retirement home in Birmingham was unobtainable. She felt dissatisfied, on edge. Placing the phone well out of reach, she read Umberto Eco until she was tired enough for bed.
In the middle of the night she had to grope her way to the toilet, half asleep. She was in bed again before she realized that she had been creeping through her own rooms as if she mustn't let herself be heard. She assumed she had still been in a dream, though one that she couldn't remember. The stealthy creaking of the trees beyond her window lulled her to sleep.
The more she knew about the
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