Umney's Last Case Read Online Free PDF Page B

way into my inner sanctum. It was a
    smell I ordinarily liked, but not
    then. At that moment it was the smell of everything that had gone wrong since the
    Demmicks hadn't come into their
    Hollywood bungalow bouncing wisecracks off each other like rubber balls and playing
    their records at top volume and
    throwing their Corgi into conniptions with their endless billing and cooing. It
    occurred to me with perfect clarity and
    simplicity--the way I'd always imagined great truths must occur to the people they
    occur to--that if some doctor
    could cut out the cancer that was killing the Fulwider Building's elevator operator,
    it would be white. Oyster white.
    And it would smell just like fresh Dutch Boy paint.
    This thought was so tiring that I had to put my head down with the heels of my palms
    pressed against my temples,
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    holding it in place . . . or maybe just keeping what was inside from exploding out and
    making a mess on the walls. And
    when the door opened softly and footsteps entered the room, I didn't look up. It
    seemed like more of an effort than I
    was able to make at that particular moment.
    Besides, I had the strange idea that I already knew who it was. I couldn't put a name
    to my knowledge, but the step was
    somehow familiar. So was the cologne, although I knew I wouldn't be able to name it
    even if someone had put a gun to
    my head, and for a very simple reason: I'd never smelled it before in my life. How
    could I recognize a scent I'd never
    smelled before, you ask? I can't answer that one, bud, but I did.
    Nor was that the worst of it. The worst of it was this: I was scared nearly out of my
    mind. I've faced blazing guns in the
    hands of angry men, which is bad, and daggers in the hands of angry women, which is a
    thousand times worse; I was
    once tied to the wheel of a Packard automobile that had been parked on the tracks of a
    busy freight line; I have even
    been tossed out a third-story window. It's been an eventful life, all right, but
    nothing in it had ever scared me the way
    the smell of that cologne and that soft footstep scared me.
    My head seemed to weigh at least six hundred pounds.
    ``Clyde,'' a voice said. A voice I'd never heard before, a voice I nevertheless knew
    as well as my own. Just that one
    word and the weight of my head went up to an even ton.
    ``Get outta here, whoever you are,'' I said without looking up. ``Joint's closed.''
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    And something made me add, ``For
    renovations.''
    ``Bad day, Clyde?''
    Was there sympathy in that voice? I thought maybe there was, and somehow that made
    things worse. Whoever this mug
    was, I didn't want his sympathy. Something told me that his sympathy would be more
    dangerous than his hate.
    ``Not so bad,'' I said, supporting my heavy, aching head with the palms of my hands
    and looking down at my
    desk-blotter for all I was worth. Written in the upper lefthand corner was Mavis
    Weld's number. I sent my eyes tracing
    over it again and again--BEverley 6-4214. Keeping my eyes on the blotter seemed like a
    good idea. I didn't know who
    my visitor was, but I knew I didn't want to see him. Right then it was the only thing
    I did know.
    `Ì think maybe you're being a little . . . disingenuous, shall we say?'' the voice
    asked, and it was sympathy, all right; the
    sound of it made my stomach curl up into something that felt like a quivering fist
    soaked with acid. There was a creak
    as he dropped into the client's chair.
    `Ì don't exactly know what that word means, but by all means, let's say it,'' I
    agreed. `Ànd now that we have, why
    don't you rise up righteous, Moggins, and shift on out of here. I'm thinking of taking
    a sick day. I can do that without
    much argument, you see, because I'm the boss. Neat, the way things work out sometimes,
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