“Now I understand clearly.” His lips formed what was very close to a sneer, a common expression he would ordinarily have scorned. “You are yourself a blackmailer. An unpleasant word, I know, but surely one that you and I can use between us.”
“Use whatever words you like. I have no fear of words. I’m determined, however, that my position shall not be jeopardized. Mrs. Fenimore is practical. She accepts our relationship as being the most tolerable and least dangerous one possible, especially since I have intelligence enough to be conservative in my requests. But I remember her as Maria Melendez. Maria Melendez was a dangerous woman, and she is not dead, after all, as we previously said. She is still alive, still dangerous. Alive and dangerous in Mrs. Fenimore, who can be forced only so far. She accepts me, but she would not accept you. Not both of us. There is no accommodation for another blackmailer, and you can see, of course, that your position makes mine extremely vulnerable. Whatever action she took against you, I would surely be included and destroyed incidentally. I’m trying to tell you, Mr. Agnew, that you are about to spoil a good thing. You are, in brief, a trespasser.”
“I can see that you have some justice to your claim. I admit it.” The suggestion of a sneer was gone from his lips now, and he watched her intently. “Tell me, Miss Melton. Since Mrs. Fenimore did not send you here, how did you learn of our appointment?”
“Perhaps you’ll remember that I answered the telephone when you called. I listened on an extension while she talked with you.”
“Well, really! Eavesdropping? That’s a crudity I’d not have believed of you.”
“My life is precarious, and my position is delicate. I resort to all sorts of crudities to preserve both. I’ve already left a note for my employer, telling her that the appointment has been cancelled.”
“Quite right, too. We can’t permit the niceties to interfere with self-preservation, can we? That, in a way, is my argument now. However, I concede your prior claim. I’ll withdraw my own.”
But he was lying, of course, as she knew perfectly well, and when he lifted his glass as if to pledge his word, she shot him three times with the small blue automatic. The explosions made very little noise, and so did he. He gasped and coughed and sighed and lay back in his chair as if he were suddenly very tired. Rising, she put the automatic in her purse, retrieved the martini glass from the floor, walked into the bathroom. She washed the glass in the lavatory, wiping it dry on a hand towel and carrying it in the towel back into the living room. She replaced it on the table from which Agnew had taken it, returned the towel to the bathroom, and then, without looking at the body in the chair, she went out of the room into the hall and back to the lobby by way of the stairs.
But she did not leave the hotel at once. Crossing the lobby, she entered a cocktail lounge and sat at a tiny round table and ordered a martini, which she drank slowly. Drinking, she thought of Mrs. Fenimore, quietly cultivating her own special terror. She decided that she would have just one more martini before she left.
THE WEREWORM, by Vincent McConnor
Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, September 1974.
“I wish he were dead...” Alicia whispered the words to herself, standing at the edge of the Nairobi hotel veranda, as she watched her husband hurry down the broad entrance steps to the street with two of the other hunters from their safari. “Dead! Dead...”
They were supposed to be having an evening on the town, without their wives, but she knew Gregg would shake the others after dinner, and meet that little French girl somewhere. It was the same in every city, in every country. Always another girl.
He looked back and waved to her as he crossed the open square with his friends, heading toward the bright lights of the avenue.
Alicia turned from the steps and, for the first time, noticed a uniformed native youth standing behind her in the deepening twilight.
As she crossed the veranda toward the lobby, he sprang to open the door, bowing and smiling.
She frowned. He could have heard what she whispered as she watched Gregg leave.
Much later, she wondered if it might have been a waiter in the dim hotel bar where she stopped for a drink before going to dinner; or it could have been that man, fat and brown, sitting at a nearby table who heard what she said. He was, certainly, watching her.
Back in California, in a public place, she would never have spoken such words out loud. In Africa, however, you felt that the native servants didn’t know enough English to understand what you were saying.
Alicia had dinner alone in the hotel dining room, and then retired immediately, weary from the day’s shopping.
Her bed was uncomfortable under its canopy of netting which kept out a few insects but prevented any fresh air from reaching her.
The night was humid and a distant but endless wail of native music, flutes and drums, came through the open windows.
She turned from side to side, trying to decide what to do about her marriage. Should she leave Gregg when they returned to California? Get a divorce?
Long after midnight she heard him return; listened to his jaunty steps in the next suite as he prepared for bed, humming to himself. She knew he had been with that pretty girl from the hotel boutique. When they visited the shop after lunch, she had been aware of Gregg’s immediate reaction as the girl greeted them, and knew that he had arranged a rendezvous while she discussed perfumes with the old Frenchman who owned the place.
In the morning, as she lifted the napkin from her breakfast tray, a folded slip of paper fell out of it and dropped onto the bed.
Alicia looked at the departing maid but there was no indication that she was aware of the note.
On the slip of coarse paper, when she opened it, was an unfamiliar address printed in pencil. Under that were several additional words: LADY FIND WHAT SHE WANT HERE.
Somebody thought she wanted something. There was so much that she wanted...
As Alicia ate breakfast she realized that she had to go to that address. She had to find out what was there that someone thought she wanted.
Gregg had a late morning appointment with the head of their safari to plan another African trip for the following year.
Alicia sat on the veranda with two of the other wives watching him stride across the square with their husbands. For once she didn’t care where he was going because she would be free to leave the hotel without having to answer any questions.
She listened to the chattering women for another ten minutes before excusing herself, telling them she had to do more shopping, and tipped the doorman to find her a taxi.
Alicia showed the slip of paper to the native driver and sat back in the small cab as it lunged through blazing sunlight into the unfamiliar city. She brought out a perfumed handkerchief from her purse and held it over her nose as streets narrowed into alleys.
The taxi driver finally stopped in front of a small shop. A dusty window displayed a clutter of carved figures.
Alicia knocked on the door as her cabby drove away and, when there was no response, pushed it open and stepped inside. As her eyes adjusted to the faint light seeping from a window high in one wall, she saw a narrow hall leading to an archway hung with beaded curtains. She went toward it, reluctantly. “Is anyone here?”
There was a whisper of movement behind the curtains and a girl appeared. Dark-skinned, wearing an exotic native costume, her arms covered with gold bracelets, she smiled and motioned for Alicia to enter.
Pushing through the beaded curtains she found herself in a low-ceilinged room, filled with layers of incense smoke. The only light came from brass lanterns suspended at different heights. There seemed to be several glass display cases, and strange carvings on low tables.
The girl motioned toward a teak chair.
“I don’t quite know why I’m here...”
Without speaking, the smiling girl vanished through another curtained door.
Alicia sat down, tentatively, looking at the jumble of objects
on display—mainly brass and ivory. Most of it seemed to be tourist junk, although she didn’t really know much about African curios.
“Welcome, Mrs. Logan. I have been expecting you.”
She turned, startled, and through the veils of incense glimpsed the figure of a man on a pillowed divan, almost invisible under a low canopy of looped draperies. His hands rested on a round brass-topped table but she was unable to see anything of his face. The hands were lean and dark brown. They protruded, to her surprise, from immaculate white shirt cuffs and the sleeves of a gray business suit. “I—I came here because of a most curious note I received this morning...”
“Quite so. We heard that there was something you wanted.”
“Something that I... I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean.”
“Shall we be quite direct, Mrs. Logan? Precisely to the point? I believe you said there was someone you hated. You wished that he were dead.”
She realized, to her surprise, that the gentle voice had a British accent. “How could you know that?”
“You are in Africa, dear lady. The faintest whisper can be heard many miles away. And, in Africa, death can always be arranged.”
She got to her feet. “I think, perhaps, I’d better go...”
“Please...” One of the brown hands lifted in a languid gesture to detain her. “Your death wish, I believe, was concerned with your husband. I can, quite easily, arrange to release you from what is, apparently, an unhappy marriage.”
“How could you possibly arrange for the—the death—of my husband?” She sat down again.
“First of all, I must know if you wish to have this take place while you are here in Nairobi.”
“I—I don’t think so. No... There might be difficulties with the authorities. I would be at a great disadvantage.”
“I understand. Then you prefer to have it happen after you have returned to the United States. When will that be? I know you are leaving Nairobi tomorrow, by plane.”
“How could you know that? We only made our reservations this morning.”
“I have my informants, Mrs. Logan. But they did not learn when you will actually be returning to your home. Precisely when you would wish the matter to be—as they say in your country—finalized.”
“We’re flying back to California next week, after a few days in Paris.”
“Then I shall arrange for your wish to be fulfilled within a matter of weeks after you reach California. Say three weeks?”
“That would be perfect. But how can you do this from such a distance? Thousands of miles...”
“I will arrange everything here, in front of you, today.” A long brown finger flicked a small metal bell on the table. “I am sure, Mrs. Logan, that you have heard of the legendary werewolf that existed in middle Europe many centuries ago...”
“But that was superstition, wasn’t it?”
“Not according to certain documents I have inspected in the British Museum. The werewolf was, of course, a man who changed into a wolf and prowled at night, killing its victims.”
The beaded curtains whispered as the girl returned and bowed.
Alicia could understand nothing of what was said but, apparently, instructions were given.
The girl bowed again and disappeared through the curtains.
“Here in Africa, Mrs. Logan, we do not have werewolves, but there is a remote mountain area where certain curious shells can be found.” One skeletal brown hand came into the light with an oval black object which looked like a large seed or nut. “When this shell opens a worm slips out. It sleeps by day but comes alive at night. That is when it prowls and kills, which is why I call it the wereworm. It will enter a man’s ear and cause instant death—silently and painlessly—leaving no trace.”
Alicia could hardly breathe, her eyes held by the shell, as she listened to his explanation. “No trace?”
“Nothing that could be found by any medical expert. Death is always believed to be from natural causes.”
“That sounds perfect...” She realized, to her surprise, that she was beginning to relax, in spite of this strange conversation.
“I shall insert this shell into a carved animal head which you can ship to California with your other belongings. The carving has no great value and the customs inspectors should ask no questions. I will give you a bill of sale for, let us say, fifty American dollars, so that no one will be suspicious. The worm should break from its shell in about three weeks. You will be able to hear it, perhaps, moving about inside the carved head. One word of warning! You must arrange that no other person will be in the room where it is kept at night—I presume the bedroom—except your husband.”
“That’s no problem. We occupy separate suites.”
“Excellent! Be sure that all doors are kept closed. Ah! Here we are...”
Alicia turned to face a dark-skinned youth carrying a large carving which he set on the table. She saw that it was the gleaming black head of a horned animal with flared nostrils and thick lips. The two horns extended to points several feet above the head, and tight curls of hair encircled its small ears and under the chin. There were no eyes, only twin empty holes. There was something about the beast’s face that repulsed her.
When she looked up the young man had gone.
“Observe me, Mrs. Logan.” The brown fingers held up the shell again. “I will insert this into an eye.” He leaned forward, without exposing his face to the dim light, and pressed the shell into an eye socket.
She heard a faint tapping sound as it dropped into the hollow head and bounced, for a moment, at the bottom.
“When this is delivered to your hotel there will be protective covers on both eyes so that the worm cannot escape.”
“Do I remove them later?”
“That will not be necessary. The wereworm will remove one of the covers when it wishes, after it breaks out from the shell.”
“I can’t believe this will work! That this small shell can produce something that will, actually, kill a man.”
“Let me assure you, Mrs. Logan, it will do exactly that.”
“Very well. I am—grateful.”
“The beauty of the wereworm is that it leaves absolutely no trace. Death will appear to be from natural causes.” The brown hand gestured in the dim light. “This carving will be packed in a wooden box. You will find it among your luggage when you are leaving for the airport.”
Alicia got to her feet as she opened her purse. “You said this would be fifty dollars, I believe?”
“The bill of sale which you will need for customs and which, very possibly, you may wish to show to your husband, will be made out for that amount. But the wereworm is extremely rare. And my services, I must add, are absolutely unique. The fee is two thousand dollars.”
“Two thou—”
“American money. There are traveler’s checks in your purse for much more than that.”
Suddenly, Alicia felt a genuine fear for the first time in her life. “How could you possibly know what I have in my purse?”
“It is necessary for me to know everything, Mrs. Logan, when I do business with a stranger.” He laughed. “Two thousand dollars for one genuine wereworm, which is, of course, my own name for the creature. The natives, in the mountain area where it breeds, call the worm something else. Not easily translatable, I fear, into English. Night devil? Yes! That is fairly close. The night devil...”
* * * *
The oblong wooden box was waiting in the hotel lobby, with their other luggage, when the Logans came down from their suite.
Alicia explained to her husband that she had bought him a present on one of her shopping expeditions.
She showed the bill of sale to the customs inspector at the Nairobi airport, who didn’t bother to open the box.
When they arrived in Los Angeles, one of Gregg’s business associates eased their way through customs. Only the elaborate leather cases containing her husband’s guns were opened and checked by the inspector on duty.
The carved head was unpacked by their butler, Willett, the day after their return to the spacious mansion in the hills above Vista Beach.
Alicia supervised its installation in Gregg’s bedroom on a pedestal, between two tall windows, facing the bed with its cover of zebra skins. The entire suite had been done in an African decor and the carving looked completely at home in its new surroundings.
Gregg saw it for the first time, later that day, when he returned from business appointments in Los Angeles.
She took him upstairs to his suite and flung the door open.
He was delighted with her present but, immediately after dinner, departed for his usual evening of pleasure elsewhere.
She spent the evening alone in the drawing room, thinking about Roberto Corro. He had been in her thoughts constantly while she was in Africa. Dear Roberto...
They had talked last night, after her return, on the private line in her bedroom. She had waited to call until she knew that her husband was asleep.
One day soon she would marry Roberto, but meanwhile they must continue to be discreet. There could be no secret meetings for the moment; no rendezvous in his beach house near La Jolla...
All their friends knew that Roberto had been a constant visitor for the past two years. They had bought many paintings from his gallery. Her husband liked Roberto and frequently played tennis with him. He came to all their parties.
The Cutthroats and Criminals Megapack Page 16