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Authors: Ruth Rendell
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drawer along with such gadgets as
potatopeelers and bottle openers. He would be sure to have several of
those.
Gwendolen poked about in Mix's kitchen, paying particular attention to
the microwave, whose function was a puzzle to her. Did toast come out of
it or music? It might even be a very small washing machine. She found
the scissors exactly where she thought they would be and cut out the
announcement of his wife's death. Downstairs she would be able to study
it at leisure with the aid of her magnifying glass.
She was only just in time. As she was descending the bottom flight he
let himself in by the front door.
"Good evening, Mr. Cellini."
"Hiya," said Mix, thinking about her getting pregnant and going for help
to Reggie. "How are you doing? All right?"
When he phoned the spa the girl called Danila told him Madam
Shoshana agreed to his servicing the machines. Perhap she would like to
come along some time and bring one of his contracts with him. Mix
concocted on his computer a contract with Mix Maintenance as its
headline--he was ratherproud of that--and printed out two copies.
Instead of being modified by the passage of time, his fear increased as
the days went by. He had never seen the figure on the stairs again,
though he fancied sometimes that he heard noises that shouldn't have
been there, footsteps in the long passage, a curious rustling sound like
someone taking crushed paper out of bags or stuffing it into them, once a
strain of music, though that might have come from the street. By night
he had to screw up his courage in order to let himself in. And those
stairs he had always hated were worse.
Reaching St. Blaise House, he forced himself to put his key into the lock
and enter the hall, the dim light coming on. Try not to think about it, he
told himself as he began to mount, think about Nerissa and about getting
fit, the way she'd like you to be--why not get yourself an exercise bike?
Fiterama will let you have it at cost. Go for walks, lift weights. He was
always telling clients what marvelous physical benefit they'd get from
using the machines. Tell yourself, he thought. And try to be glad about
these stairs. Going up them is good exercise too.
Like a kind of therapy, this worked until he came to the landing below
the tiled flight. Feeble light, filtered through tree branches and foliage
and the grime on the glass, seeped through the Isabella window and
touched him with spots ofcolor as he walked up. It lay on the top floor
like a pattern donein smudged chalks and quite still on this windless
night. Two long black passages stretched away from the landing,
emptyand silent, all the doors closed. He switched on the light once
more, staring fearfully down the left-hand passage as the cat appeared
from out of a door which came open and closed of its own accord. He saw
its green eyes glinting as it walked in unconcerned fashion toward him,
hissed as it passed him and made for the stairs.
Who or what had opened the door? He plunged into his flat, fumbling
for the lightswitch but at last turning it on. The sudden brightness made
him let out his breath in a long, relieved sigh. He'd heard of cats learning
to open doors, though these in the flat had knobs, not handles. It might
be different out there. Going to look was out of the question. The door in
question must have a handle, and Otto, who was clever if evil, had
learned to stand on his hind legs and apply to it the pressure of his clawy
paw. Who had closed it? Doors close of their own accord, he told himself.
It happens all the time.
A cheerful film on television, a not-so-old Hollywood musical, a mug of
hot chocolate with a drop of whiskey in it, and three Maryland cookies
finished the job of reassurance. Still, once he started on his fitness
regimen, all that sort of eating and drinking would have to stop. It was
warm in the flat but not too hot, 27 degrees. That was the kind of
temperature he liked. Warmth,
potatopeelers and bottle openers. He would be sure to have several of
those.
Gwendolen poked about in Mix's kitchen, paying particular attention to
the microwave, whose function was a puzzle to her. Did toast come out of
it or music? It might even be a very small washing machine. She found
the scissors exactly where she thought they would be and cut out the
announcement of his wife's death. Downstairs she would be able to study
it at leisure with the aid of her magnifying glass.
She was only just in time. As she was descending the bottom flight he
let himself in by the front door.
"Good evening, Mr. Cellini."
"Hiya," said Mix, thinking about her getting pregnant and going for help
to Reggie. "How are you doing? All right?"
When he phoned the spa the girl called Danila told him Madam
Shoshana agreed to his servicing the machines. Perhap she would like to
come along some time and bring one of his contracts with him. Mix
concocted on his computer a contract with Mix Maintenance as its
headline--he was ratherproud of that--and printed out two copies.
Instead of being modified by the passage of time, his fear increased as
the days went by. He had never seen the figure on the stairs again,
though he fancied sometimes that he heard noises that shouldn't have
been there, footsteps in the long passage, a curious rustling sound like
someone taking crushed paper out of bags or stuffing it into them, once a
strain of music, though that might have come from the street. By night
he had to screw up his courage in order to let himself in. And those
stairs he had always hated were worse.
Reaching St. Blaise House, he forced himself to put his key into the lock
and enter the hall, the dim light coming on. Try not to think about it, he
told himself as he began to mount, think about Nerissa and about getting
fit, the way she'd like you to be--why not get yourself an exercise bike?
Fiterama will let you have it at cost. Go for walks, lift weights. He was
always telling clients what marvelous physical benefit they'd get from
using the machines. Tell yourself, he thought. And try to be glad about
these stairs. Going up them is good exercise too.
Like a kind of therapy, this worked until he came to the landing below
the tiled flight. Feeble light, filtered through tree branches and foliage
and the grime on the glass, seeped through the Isabella window and
touched him with spots ofcolor as he walked up. It lay on the top floor
like a pattern donein smudged chalks and quite still on this windless
night. Two long black passages stretched away from the landing,
emptyand silent, all the doors closed. He switched on the light once
more, staring fearfully down the left-hand passage as the cat appeared
from out of a door which came open and closed of its own accord. He saw
its green eyes glinting as it walked in unconcerned fashion toward him,
hissed as it passed him and made for the stairs.
Who or what had opened the door? He plunged into his flat, fumbling
for the lightswitch but at last turning it on. The sudden brightness made
him let out his breath in a long, relieved sigh. He'd heard of cats learning
to open doors, though these in the flat had knobs, not handles. It might
be different out there. Going to look was out of the question. The door in
question must have a handle, and Otto, who was clever if evil, had
learned to stand on his hind legs and apply to it the pressure of his clawy
paw. Who had closed it? Doors close of their own accord, he told himself.
It happens all the time.
A cheerful film on television, a not-so-old Hollywood musical, a mug of
hot chocolate with a drop of whiskey in it, and three Maryland cookies
finished the job of reassurance. Still, once he started on his fitness
regimen, all that sort of eating and drinking would have to stop. It was
warm in the flat but not too hot, 27 degrees. That was the kind of
temperature he liked. Warmth,
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