Nice Weekend for a Murder Read Online Free PDF Page B

a film.
    “I don’t see any reason to get personal, Mallory,” Rath said.
    I sighed. “You referred to a writer I respect—a man I’ve met and like—as a cretin. That strikes me as personal. Sort of like the personal conversation you inserted your opinion into.”
    He smirked again. “Now I’m being accused of intellectual rape.”
    “Hardly,” I said. “I don’t think you could get it up.”
    The smirk dissolved into a sneer.
    “You have a decided suicidal streak, don’t you, Mallory?”
    “Why, because you’ll pan my next book? As opposed to those glowing things you’ve said about me in the past? Go to hell, Kirk.”
    “You’re rude and you’re crude.”
    “And I’m a hip-talkin’ dude. What do you know, Kirk? We’re rappin’! Now go away.”
    Rath looked at Pete, sharply, and said, “I don’t like your choice of company, Christian.”
    “I don’t like people who barge into private conversations,” Pete said, with some edge.
    Jill glanced at me, and I glanced at her.
    Rath pointed a finger at Pete like a manicured gun. “You’re vulnerable, too, my friend.”
    “I’m not your friend,” Pete said. “I haven’t forgotten what you did to C.J. Beaufort.”
    “What
I
did? Beaufort wrote very bad books, and killed himself. I had nothing to do with either.”
    “You
destroyed
him in print!” Pete was shaking a fist. “It shattered him!”
    Rath ignored Pete’s fist and laughed. “Writers are public figures; their work is submitted for public consumption. If they can’t take the heat, they should get the hell out of the literature.”
    Pete was trembling; really worked up. “C.J. Beaufort was a kind, gentle man... and he was my friend!”
    I stepped in between Pete and Rath. “I hate to break up this little family reunion, but we were all due downstairs about five minutes ago.”
    Rath shook his head, said, “You people are pathetic,” and clomped down the nearby stairs.
    “So that was Kirk S. Rath,” Jill said, shaken.
    “Himself,” I said, feeling a little battered myself.
    “I should have thrown him down the stairs,” Pete said as we started down them. He was huffing with anger.
    “I shouldn’t have baited him,” I said, regretting having ignited the scene between them. “I
was
rude and crude.”
    “Nonsense! We were talking and he butted in. That arrogant little bastard. You knocked him down a peg or two.”
    “Yeah, right. That brings his ego almost down into the stratosphere.”
    Jill said, “He’s amazing. Did you see his eyes?”
    “What about them?” I asked.
    “He’s certifiable,” she said. “He’s a sociopath.”
    “He doesn’t feel a shred of remorse over Beaufort’s suicide,” Pete said, a little amazed.
    “Kirk Rath isn’t a sociopath,” I said. “He’s just immature. He’s an arrested adolescent. Or is that an adolescent who should be arrested?”
    “You’re too easy on him,” Pete said, shaking his head, lighting up another cigarette.
    “I think he truly doesn’t understand why his criticism is taken so personally,” I said. “He’s a permanent grad student, dazzled by his own William F. Buckley vocabulary and arch prose style.”
    “He knows about the power of the pen,” Pete said, nodding, “But he doesn’t understand the responsibility that goes with it.”
    “Maybe that’s why everybody and his duck is suing him,” Jill offered.
    “C.J. Beaufort can’t sue him,” Pete said.
    And he walked on into the large downstairs parlor where the game players were assembling.
    Jill looped her arm in mine. “What’s the story on this guy Beaufort?”
    “I don’t know all the details,” I said. “Beaufort was a pulp writer, dating back to the
Black Mask
days. He was an alcoholic. He had some success in the forties, then faded, and wrote paperbacks under many names, for many years. He had some vocal fans, Pete among them, but mostly he was thought of as a solid pro, a journeyman, nothing special. Till Rath.”
    “What did