Read Online Hard Case Crime: Blackmailer by George Axelrod - Free Book Online
Authors: George Axelrod
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might be interested in publishing it.”
I felt as if I had heard this conversation before.
“What is the book?” I asked.
I stood tensely, waiting for him to answer, knowing what he was going to say.
“A novel,” Walter said, “that was completed by Charles Anstruther, just before his death.”
Suddenly my head began to ache.
“Listen, Walter,” I said weakly. “Have you got a drink around this place?”
Walter opened a cabinet and took out a bottle of brandy. He poured several inches into a glass and handed it to me.
I sank into the armchair. I felt tired. My hangover had returned with full force. I did not seem to be able to follow what was going on.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Walter said. “If you look around you’ll find all sorts of amusing things. Books, magazines, pictures. Or, if you like, there’s the radio or records. Or the television. The switches are right there by your arm. If you press the red switch at the end you might provide yourself with some live entertainment. I’ll be out of the shower in less than ten minutes. Cigarettes in the box. Liquor in the cabinet.”
He turned and disappeared into the bedroom. In a moment or two I could hear the faint sound of a shower.
I sank back in the chair and sipped the brandy. I didn’t think. I didn’t move. I sat there and let the warmth of the brandy spread through my body.
Then, for the first time, I looked around the room, taking notice of my surroundings.
Walter’s sitting room was dominated by a giganticpicture on the wall opposite the bedroom door. Walter claimed it was a Titian and worth a quarter of a million dollars. I guess it was.
The room also included a small piano, an entire wall of bookshelves, and a fireplace. Inside a glass cabinet was Walter’s famous collection of antique dueling pistols, all very deadly-looking.
I slumped in the chair, admiring the Titian and listening to the sound of Walter’s shower.
Beside the arm of the chair was the amplifier for Walter’s record player and radio. On top of it was a complex row of buttons and gadgets. It looked like the instrument panel on a B-29.
Even if I wanted to play records, I thought, it would take me a week to figure out how.
Experimentally, I pushed a button. Just at random, to see what would happen.
I waited.
Across the room, at eye level, a section of bookcase slid noiselessly to one side, revealing the largest television screen I’d ever seen outside a saloon.
Very neat. Very mechanical.
I pushed the button again and the bookshelves slid back into place.
Then I noticed the red button at the end.
The brandy, on top of an empty stomach on top of half a bottle of bourbon from the night before, was beginning to have a strange effect.
I felt light-headed.
I felt cool and detached and whimsical.
I drained the rest of the brandy in my glass.
Then, for the second time, I noticed the red button on the end. I leaned over and pushed it.
I sat expectantly, waiting to see what would happen.
I half expected the floor to open up and half a dozen dancing girls to appear.
Or a symphony orchestra to slide out from under the couch.
Even so, I was caught off guard.
Silently, moving on oiled hinges or ball bearings or whatever they were, the enormous two hundred and fifty thousand dollar Titian began to slide along the wall.
I watched it, fascinated.
Behind the picture was a glass window about eight feet high and five feet wide.
On the other side of the window, about six feet from the tip of my nose, was Janis Whitney.
She was wearing only the bottom half of what I think they call a bikini bathing suit. She was looking straight at me, brushing her hair.
I waited for a startled expression to appear on her face, but her expression did not change. She continued to stare directly at me. Her lips moved as she counted strokes.
I am not very quick about things like this.
It took me about that long to figure out why herexpression did not change. As far as she was
I felt as if I had heard this conversation before.
“What is the book?” I asked.
I stood tensely, waiting for him to answer, knowing what he was going to say.
“A novel,” Walter said, “that was completed by Charles Anstruther, just before his death.”
Suddenly my head began to ache.
“Listen, Walter,” I said weakly. “Have you got a drink around this place?”
Walter opened a cabinet and took out a bottle of brandy. He poured several inches into a glass and handed it to me.
I sank into the armchair. I felt tired. My hangover had returned with full force. I did not seem to be able to follow what was going on.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Walter said. “If you look around you’ll find all sorts of amusing things. Books, magazines, pictures. Or, if you like, there’s the radio or records. Or the television. The switches are right there by your arm. If you press the red switch at the end you might provide yourself with some live entertainment. I’ll be out of the shower in less than ten minutes. Cigarettes in the box. Liquor in the cabinet.”
He turned and disappeared into the bedroom. In a moment or two I could hear the faint sound of a shower.
I sank back in the chair and sipped the brandy. I didn’t think. I didn’t move. I sat there and let the warmth of the brandy spread through my body.
Then, for the first time, I looked around the room, taking notice of my surroundings.
Walter’s sitting room was dominated by a giganticpicture on the wall opposite the bedroom door. Walter claimed it was a Titian and worth a quarter of a million dollars. I guess it was.
The room also included a small piano, an entire wall of bookshelves, and a fireplace. Inside a glass cabinet was Walter’s famous collection of antique dueling pistols, all very deadly-looking.
I slumped in the chair, admiring the Titian and listening to the sound of Walter’s shower.
Beside the arm of the chair was the amplifier for Walter’s record player and radio. On top of it was a complex row of buttons and gadgets. It looked like the instrument panel on a B-29.
Even if I wanted to play records, I thought, it would take me a week to figure out how.
Experimentally, I pushed a button. Just at random, to see what would happen.
I waited.
Across the room, at eye level, a section of bookcase slid noiselessly to one side, revealing the largest television screen I’d ever seen outside a saloon.
Very neat. Very mechanical.
I pushed the button again and the bookshelves slid back into place.
Then I noticed the red button at the end.
The brandy, on top of an empty stomach on top of half a bottle of bourbon from the night before, was beginning to have a strange effect.
I felt light-headed.
I felt cool and detached and whimsical.
I drained the rest of the brandy in my glass.
Then, for the second time, I noticed the red button on the end. I leaned over and pushed it.
I sat expectantly, waiting to see what would happen.
I half expected the floor to open up and half a dozen dancing girls to appear.
Or a symphony orchestra to slide out from under the couch.
Even so, I was caught off guard.
Silently, moving on oiled hinges or ball bearings or whatever they were, the enormous two hundred and fifty thousand dollar Titian began to slide along the wall.
I watched it, fascinated.
Behind the picture was a glass window about eight feet high and five feet wide.
On the other side of the window, about six feet from the tip of my nose, was Janis Whitney.
She was wearing only the bottom half of what I think they call a bikini bathing suit. She was looking straight at me, brushing her hair.
I waited for a startled expression to appear on her face, but her expression did not change. She continued to stare directly at me. Her lips moved as she counted strokes.
I am not very quick about things like this.
It took me about that long to figure out why herexpression did not change. As far as she was
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