Footnote to Murder by L. A. Taylor

Author:L. A. Taylor [Taylor, L. A.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: FTL Publications
Published: 2012-07-30T16:00:00+00:00

Ten*

"Should we have called the police, do you think?"

George Greyborn glanced at Marge sideways as he drove, much the way his son did.

He drove on in silence for several minutes. The rain began again, heavier than before, a real October rain. "Looking at it objectively," he said at last, "yes, we should have called them. We can do that from your apartment, if you like."

Marge considered the option. A reluctance to bring this elegant man into her rather shabby apartment decided her. "Let's give it a miss," she said. "They probably couldn't do anything, anyway. As long as I'm out of it without any damage, I'm ready to forget it."

"Without damage," Greyborn repeated in a ruminative tone. "I wonder if that might not mean something."

Marge chuckled. "It means I can stomp like an angry rhinoceros when properly motivated," she said, exhilarated by the memory of the man's painful-looking run. "Too bad Bellflower Press was so drunk. I'd like to have ripped that ski mask off."

"It might have settled a number of things." Greyborn's tone was oddly expressionless. Marge sneaked a quick look at his face, as remote and expressionless as his voice.

"Will you tell Phil?" she asked.

"Not unless you want me to." The tires stopped hissing as the car slowed to turn into Marge's street.

"Good." Her ebullient mood returned. "He'd only nag me to give up the chase. Now that things are happening, though, I think we may find out a few things."

She was aware of Greyborn's head shaking. "Don't do anything foolish," he warned. "Don't tempt fate."

"It isn't a question of tempting fate," she said. "But I bet Phil was right. I bet the murderer was at that party the other night, or heard about it from someone who was, and now he's taking action. It's new to him, and he's sure to give himself away."

"Are you sure it's new to him?" Greyborn's voice seemed to recede into an even greater distance.

"You think it's not?"

"Look in my right-hand coat pocket."

Marge put her hand into his coat pocket and felt something damp wadded up there, something soft and familiar-feeling. She pulled it out and held it up to the faint light from the windshield.

Greyborn stopped the car and put on the dome light. Marge was looking at a leg cut from a pair of pantyhose. She stared at Greyborn, her glee fizzling. "Where did this come from?" she half-whispered.

"I found it on the sidewalk while helping my young friend to his feet."

"You're joking."

Marge tried to remember the path: the young man sprawled on his belly, the gleam along the edges of the bricks in the yellow light of the street lamp. She couldn't get an image of the stocking, but there had been many shadows.

"I assure you, I am not joking." Greyborn turned his eyes toward her. She had the feeling he wasn't seeing her at all. "I'm beginning to think Phil may be right, Mrs. Brock. Perhaps we should give you a break for a few days. If it's not already too late.

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