The Library Fuzz MEGAPACK ®: The Complete Hal Johnson Series by James Holding

Author:James Holding [Holding, James]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: mystery, detective, book, library, crime
Publisher: Wildside Press LLC
Published: 2015-07-20T16:00:00+00:00

THE HONEYCOMB OF SILENCE

Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, August 1978.

I found a public telephone booth on the apron of a gas station two blocks away from Benton’s house. I pulled into the service station, parked out of the way of possible pump traffic, and entered the stuffy booth, groping in my pocket for change.

It was a hot bright morning in August—a Tuesday, I remember—and I was sweating even before I closed myself into the booth.

Instead of dialing the emergency number, I called Headquarters and asked for Lieutenant Randall of Homicide. He was my former boss. I hadn’t seen him or heard from him in several months, so I figured this was a pretty good chance to say hello.

Randall picked up his phone and said, “Yeah?” in a bored voice. “Lieutenant Randall.”

“Hal Johnson,” I said. “Remember me?”

“Vaguely,” he answered. “Aren’t you that sissy cop from the public library?”

“You do remember me,” I said. “How nice. Are you keeping busy these days, Lieutenant?”

“So-so.” He paused. Then, with an edge of suspicion, “Why?”

“I think I may have stumbled across a job for you, Lieutenant.”

“You always were papa’s little helper,” Randall said. “What kind of job?”

“I think a man’s been murdered at 4321 Eastwood Street.”

“You think a man’s been murdered?”

“Yes. I went there just now to collect an overdue library book, and when nobody answered the doorbell I took a quick look through the living-room curtains, which weren’t drawn quite tight, and I saw a man lying on the floor in front of the TV set. The TV was turned on. I could hear the sound and see the picture through the window.”

“Did you go inside?”

I was shocked. “After all you taught me? Of course not. I didn’t even try the door.”

“So the guy didn’t hear you ring the doorbell on account of the TV noise,” said Randall hopefully. “He’s tired. He’s lying on the floor to relax while he watches his favorite soap opera.”

“Face down? And with all that blood on the back of his shirt?”

Randall sighed. “4321 Eastwood?”

“Right.”

“I’ll send somebody to check it out. What name did you have for that address?”

“Robert Fenton. I hope he’s not the guy on the floor, though.”

“Why?”

“Because if it’s Fenton, he owes the library a fine of two dollars and twenty cents on his overdue library book.”

“You’re breaking my heart,” Randall said. “Where are you calling from?”

“A pay phone two blocks away. Do you want me to go back and wait for your boys?”

“No. Thanks all the same.” His voice became bland. “If it’s a murder, we’ll try to handle it all by ourselves this time, Hal. Aren’t there some kids somewhere with overdue picture books you can track down today?”

* * * *

Randall telephoned me back at home that evening. His call came just as I was taking my first sip of my first cold martini before dinner. I hadn’t even decided yet whether to go out to eat or to finish up the meatloaf left over from the pitiful bachelor Sunday dinner I’d cooked for myself two days before.

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