He had entered the hospital room so quietly that Lynn Prentiss was
unaware that she was not alone--the nurse had left fifteen minutes
before--until he was standing by the bed with a sheaf of drawings under
arm and the strangest, oddest assortment of yellow flowers in the other
she had ever seen.
"You'll have to turn on the light to look at these, I guess," he said
and she didn't know at first whether he was referring to the flowers or
the drawings. But when she switched on the light directly over the bed
she saw that it was one of the drawings which he was extending toward
her. The flowers he was holding a little awkwardly, not even venturing
to offer them to her, as if he wasn't quite sure that she would approve
of his taste in flowers or would not think him over-presumptuous.
Since he seemed to want her to look at the drawings first, she did so,
studying them carefully as he passed them to her one by one.
"Well," he said, when she had remained for a long while silent. "What
do you think."
She sat up very straight, took the flowers from him and pressed them to
her nostrils, looking at him very steadily and with a strange warmth in
her eyes--a warmth that made him return her gaze incredulously.
"Yes," she said.
"The flowers aren't too bad, is that what you're trying to tell me? But
my drawings--"
"No," she said. "That isn't what I'm trying to tell you. I like both
the flowers and the drawings. But these new drawings--well, they're
a little on the terrific side, if you don't mind my saying so. And
they _are_ saleable. I can guarantee it. I can't do too much to help,
because we only need six more drawings this month, and six sales to the
Eaton-Lathrup publications will do no more than start you off. But when
we've published six, I'm sure you won't have any difficulty in selling
the rest to other publications."
"It went against the grain," he said. "I don't quite know why I did it."
She continued to look at him, and the warmth in her eyes told him why,
but it took him quite a long while to grasp it.
* * * * *
It was over and they'd released him. Ralph Gilmore still had to appear
in court on an illegal firearms possession charge, but that big
detective he'd disliked so much at first had assured him that the worst
he'd get would be a suspended sentence.
The law was designed, apparently, to discourage gangsters from carrying
weapons--although it didn't always work that way--and a young writer,
without a criminal record, would be shown a great deal of leniency.
Everyone, even judges, expected writers to behave a little strangely, a
little differently from other people and that would count in his favor.
He hoped the big detective was right about that. It would worry him
and keep him awake nights until the ordeal was over, because just
the thought of appearing in court to answer a quite serious charge
terrified him.
No reason why it should now, he told himself. He'd had the book thrown
at him, hadn't he? He'd been booked at a police station, taken into
court, fingerprinted and confined in a cell for more than a week. If he
could survive that, he could survive anything.
And the way they'd questioned him, in a room without windows and a
bright light flooding down--Not the third degree really, nothing as bad
as that. But it had been bad enough.
There was a tap on the door and he looked up quickly.
"Who is it?" he demanded.
"It's me--Nora. I heard about all what happened to you. I wanted to die
myself, Ralph--I swear it."
He arose slowly, went to the door and opened it. "I told your mother
about it," he said. "I went to that office with the intention of
killing her. But at the last moment--I couldn't do it. I went there on
the very morning of the murder. And I bought a gun--"
"I know, Ralph ... I know, darling. It's painful to talk about and
there's no reason why you should, now. You know I love you."
"Yes ... and I love you, Nora. I must have been crazy not to realize it
sooner."
"Don't blame yourself too much, Ralph. She must have been a _very_
beautiful woman."
"Well--"
"Please don't worry about it, Ralph. It's all over now, done with.
Don't even think about it."
"I'm trying very hard not to. But it isn't so easy--"
"Kiss me, Ralph. Kiss me and take me into your arms and make passionate
love to me, like you did once."
"We're going to get married, Nora. You know that, don't you? We'll go
right down to City Hall tomorrow, and apply for a marriage license."
"You don't have to marry me, Ralph. You don't--"
"But I want to. Don't you understand, you little fool? I want to and
I'll do it ... if I have to drag you all the way downtown by the hair!"
"Ralph...."
"Yes?"
"Oh, Ralph, darling--"
* * * * *
Fenton had slept so soundly for ten hours his wife had to tug at his
arm three times to awaken him.
"Joseph," she said. "The hospital just phoned again. Gallison is
completely out of danger. You said he was last night, but I could see
you were still a little worried."
Fenton came wide awake in an instant. "They're absolutely sure about
it, eh?"
"Yes, the bullet's out and he'll be reporting back for duty in two
weeks. He told them to tell you that."
"Is he crazy?" Fenton grumbled. "He rates a month's sick leave, at
least."
"I'm just repeating the message he asked them to give you."
Fenton sighed and rolled over on his side. "I always thought he was a
little crazy. Well ... it's good news, anyway. Will you please go away
now."
"But why? Breakfast is--"
"Never mind about my breakfast," Fenton said, drawing the sheets up
over his head. "I'm not anything like as crazy as Gallison is. I'm
going to sleep for a month."
* * * * *
The Sadist
"She'll insert the knife so delicately that the man won't feel any
pain at all. Just a warm gratefulness, an intoxicating sort of
happiness. Then she'll start twisting the blade back and forth ... back
and forth ... until the poor devil has been tormented beyond endurance.
He'll either wrap a nylon stocking around her beautiful white throat,
or something worse ... something uglier...."
_Here is the story of a sadistic woman, and the warped lives of those
who loved ... and hated her._
_Fred Ellers, the Pulitzer Prize winning writer who was corrupted by
fame...._
_Joe Fenton, who considered crime a fascinating sort of disease, and
police work a scientific game...._
_Ruth Porges, who was caught in the most vicious of all triangles...._
A brand-new tale of New York City's Nightmare Zone, by one of the
greatest craftsmen of suspense, Frank Long.
A BELMONT BOOK