The Nothing Man by Jim Thompson

Author:Jim Thompson [Thompson, Jim]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Detective and mystery stories, Psychological fiction, Psychology, Mystery & Detective, Hard-Boiled, Crime, Fiction, Criminals, Criminals - Fiction, General, Veterans, Veterans - Psychology - Fiction
ISBN: 9780375700316
Publisher: Vintage Books
Published: 1997-02-15T04:53:20.687000+00:00

13

The waiter came and went, came back with drinks and went away again. In the interim, while we were waiting for him to get out of the way, we made meaningless small talk.

He left for the second time. She sipped her drink, her fingers toying with the cardboard menu, a faintly teasing smile on her lips.

"Surprised you, didn't I? You thought it was a secret."

"A very rare type of secret," I said. "One dealing with the non-existent. Newspapermen don't write poetry, Deborah, never, never, ever. That's traditional."

"Oh, ye-es?" she drawled, smiling. "I know one that does. He was writing one the first time I saw him. In the office. He got rid of it very fast, but not quite fast enough… Not for someone who could read a menu upside down and across the table."

I lifted my glass. I took a very long swallow and set it down again. "Poetry," I said. "It places me in a pretty bad company doesn't it? I mean, that poem she had. They think there's a possibility that the killer may have written it."

"Do they?" She shrugged. "Oh, well…" Just, oh, well. Meaning nothing; meaning a great deal.

"Yes," I said. "That's what they think, and I have a strong hunch they may be right. I think they may have even more reason to think so in the not-too-distant future."

Here was my answer. Just a matter of minutes before- in my hotel room-I had been wondering how I could draw Stukey's attention away from Tom Judge, how I could prove once and for all that the murderer and the poet were the same person.

Now I knew how I could prove it.

Through Deborah.

If, say, there was another murder, and if a poem similar to the first one was found on the victim…

"Let's not talk about… it." She frowned. "But you won't write any more of those poems, will you? I think they're bad for you."

"I think they could be, myself," I said. "I certainly wouldn't care to have them become a matter of public knowledge, Deborah."

"Don't you worry, darling." She patted my thigh. "I'd never tell anyone. Now you just stop being sad, hmmmm? Because there's nothing to be sad about, now."

"Perhaps not," I said. "How can one be sad when he has the sky and the stars to gaze upon and God's own green carpet to rest his aching arches? Morning's at seven, Deborah. Morning's at seven, the hillside's dew-pearled, God's in his heaven, all's right with the world."

"That's awfully pretty, Brownie. Did you write that?"

"Yes," I said. "I did it under my pen name, Elizabeth Khayyam. I wrote it one eventide on a windswept hill while watching a father bird wing home to his wee ones. There was a long caterpillar in his beak and he had it swung over his shoulders, muffler fashion, as a shield against the wintry cold. I… Listen to me, Deborah! For God's sake, listen!"

She had been laughing, looking at me fondly. Now she went serious and she said, "No, Brownie.

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