Tightrope Walker Read Online Free PDF Page A

me another name.”
    “You believe the note is authentic?”
    I nodded. “It feels authentic. I’m hoping you’ll tell me more about the person who wrote it.”
    “Even if they’re dead?”
    “Even if they’re dead.”
    He looked at me for a long time. He seemed to be having trouble remaining professional. “Right,” hesaid. “None of my business, either, is it. Except—” He turned on me angrily. “But if the note should be real, the operative word here is murder, have you thought about that?”
    I flushed. “I can’t really explain, it’s just something I feel I have to look into. Wouldn’t you?”
    “I don’t know,” he said, looking young again and unprofessional. “Amelia, is it? Amelia, will you for heaven’s sake—” He stopped. “Damn it, my egg’s cold.”
    I giggled. “I know.”
    “Coffee?”
    “All right.”
    I sat and drank coffee while he studied the letter and made a great many notes on a sheet of paper next to it. I learned that graphology couldn’t determine the sex of a person but only their masculine and feminine qualities. Hannah appeared to have a fairly equal proportion of each, with perhaps the feminine a shade more persistent. I learned that Hannah was somewhat introverted, and definitely a reclusive type. Her writing—until she was proven to be otherwise I had to consider her a woman—was sensitive and artistic. She was basically a generous person, and reliable. There was some sexual repression but nothing abnormal there. She was healthy and educated, had a strong vein of common sense, and along with her flair for the artistic she had considerable executive capabilities.
    “No fool, your Hannah,” said J. Osbourne, putting down his pen. “I can type up a detailed analysis for you tonight, giving you the full picture, but I’d say she’s a perfectly sane person—assuming she’s female—who ran her life well, would be generous with those closest to her but not overly outgoing with people in general, preferring a quiet orderly life. She’d insist on privacy—it would mean a great deal to her, perhaps be something of a fetish with her. But except for these tendenciestoward withdrawal, and a preference for control over spontaneity, this is a balanced, reliable, fairly realistic person, with no signs of abnormality, psychosis, disease, or hysteria. This note was written under pressure but the pressure is muted at the beginning. Actually the first few lines are more reflective than agitated. As the note progresses you can see by the pressure of the pen on the paper that there’s a growing anger, a growing haste, a sense of being—well, pressured.”
    “Or frightened,” I said quietly. “You make her sound—nice.”
    He nodded. “I think she was. And I wish like hell I could have told you she was unbalanced, sick, or mad, the sort who writes notes and hides them in hurdy-gurdies every day. Then, damn it, you’d go home and forget about her, which I hope you’ll do, anyway. If you don’t, you’ve placed me in a lousy position, you know.”
    “How so?” I asked curiously.
    His lips tightened. “I’ll have to worry about you.”
    “Oh, you mustn’t,” I said earnestly. “It’s very nice of you but you mustn’t feel that way. An hour ago you didn’t even know I existed. It wasn’t your fault I brought you a letter like this, although I did try to keep you from seeing it,” I pointed out.
    “Yes, you did,” he agreed dryly. “Where are you off to now?”
    “To see Oliver Keene, who used to own the hurdy-gurdy.”
    “Look, you live with your parents?” he asked.
    I shook my head.
    “Close friends?”
    I shook my head.
    “Hell,” he said, running a hand through his hair again, “then do me one favor, will you? Call me tonight and tell me you’re all right.” He rummaged in his deskand produced a card. “This is my number, I’ll be here.” When I looked surprised he smiled faintly. “Look, it isn’t only that, I’m curious, I want to