Tub had been waiting for an hour in the falling snow. He paced the sidewalk to keep warm and stuck his head out over the curb whenever he saw lights approaching. One driver stopped for him, but before Tub could wave the man on he saw the rifle on Tub’s back and hit the gas. The tires spun on the ice.
The fall of snow thickened. Tub stood below the overhang of a building. Across the road the clouds whitened just above the rooftops, and the streetlights went out. He shifted the rifle strap to his other shoulder. The whiteness seeped up the sky.
A truck slid around the corner, horn blaring, rear end sashaying. Tub moved to the sidewalk and held up his hand. The truck jumped the curb and kept coming, half on the street and half on the sidewalk. It wasn’t slowing down at all. Tub stood for a moment, still holding up his hand, then jumped back. His rifle slipped off his shoulder and clattered on the ice; a sandwich fell out of his pocket. He ran for the steps of the building. Another sandwich and a package of cookies tumbled onto the new snow. He made the steps and looked back.
The truck had stopped several feet beyond where Tub had been standing. He picked up his sandwiches and his cookies and slung the rifle and went to the driver’s window. The driver was bent against the steering wheel, slapping his knees and drumming his feet on the floorboards. He looked like a cartoon of a person laughing, except that his eyes watched the man on the seat beside him.
“You ought to see yourself,” said the driver. “He looks just like a beach ball with a hat on, doesn’t he? Doesn’t he, Frank?”
The man beside him smiled and looked off.
“You almost ran me down,” said Tub. “You could’ve killed me.”
“Come on, Tub,” said the man beside the driver. “Be mellow, Kenny was just messing around.” He opened the door and slid over to the middle of the seat.
Tub took the bolt out of his rifle and climbed in beside him. “I waited an hour,” he said. “If you meant ten o’clock, why didn’t you say ten o’clock?”
“Tub, you haven’t done anything but complain since we got here,”
said the man in the middle. “If you want to piss and moan all day you might as well go home and bitch at your kids. Take your pick.” When Tub didn’t say anything, he turned to the driver. “O.K., Kenny, let’s hit the road.”
Some juvenile delinquents had heaved a brick through the windshield on the driver’s side, so the cold and snow tunneled right into the cab. The heater didn’t work. They covered themselves with a couple of blankets Kenny had brought along and pulled down the muffs on their caps. Tub tried to keep his hands warm by rubbing them under the blanket, but Frank made him stop.
Below: âThe Screaming Skull originally appeared in Volume 41 of Collierâs National Weekly Magazineâin two partsâin the July 11 and July 18, 1908 issues. (Click thumbnails to enlarge.)
Top-left: The 1911 book cover for F. Marion Crawfordâs story collection Wandering Ghosts, which included âThe Screaming Skullâ; and top-right: Original story illustration for the 1911 edition (caption reads: âWhat? . . . Itâs gone, man, the Skull is gone!!â); artist unknown. (Images: Wiki; Pinterest; Haithi Trust; Public Domain.)
I have often heard it scream. No, I am not nervous, I am not imaginative, and I have never believed in ghosts, unless that thing is one. Whatever it is, it hates me almost as much as it hated Luke Pratt, and it screams at me.
If I were you, I would never tell ugly stories about ingenious ways of killing people, for you never can tell but that someone at the table may be tired of his or her nearest and dearest. I have always blamed myself for Mrs Prattâs death, and I suppose I was responsible for it in a way, though heaven knows I never wished her anything but long life and happiness. If I had not told that story she might be alive yet. That is why the thing screams at me, I fancy.
She was a good little woman, with a sweet temper, all things considered, and a nice gentle voice; but I remember hearing her shriek once when she thought her little boy was killed by a pistol that went off, though everyone was sure that it was not loaded.
It was the same scream; exactly the same, with a sort of rising quaver at the end; do you know what I mean? Unmistakable.
The truth is, I had not realized that the doctor and his wife were not on good terms. They used to bicker a bit now and then when I was here, and I often noticed that little Mrs Pratt got very red and bit her lip hard to keep her temper, while Luke grew pale and said the most offensive things. He was that sort when he was in the nursery, I remember and afterward at school. He was my cousin, you know; that is how I came by this house; after he died, and his boy Charley was killed in South Africa, there were no relations left. Yes, itâs a pretty little property, just the sort of thing for an old sailor like me who has taken to gardening.
One always remembers oneâs mistakes much more vividly than oneâs cleverest things, doesnât one? Iâve often noticed it. I was dining with the Pratts one night, when I told them the story that afterwards made so much difference. It was a wet night in November, and the sea was moaning. Hush! â if you donât speak you will hear it nowâŚ
Do you hear the tide? Gloomy sound, isnât it? Sometimes, about this time of year â hallo! â there it is! Donât be frightened, man â it wonât eat you â itâs only a noise, after all! But Iâm glad youâve heard it, because there are always people who think itâs the wind, or my imagination, or something. You wonât hear it again tonight, I fancy, for it doesnât often come more than once. Yes â thatâs right. Put another stick on the fire, and a little more stuff into that weak mixture youâre so fond of. Do you remember old Blauklot the carpenter, on that German ship that picked us up when the Clontarf went to the bottom? We were hove to in a howling gale one night, as snug as you please, with no land within five hundred miles, and the ship coming up and falling off as regularly as clockwork â âBiddy te boor beebles ashore tis night, poys!â old Blauklot sang out, as he went off to his quarters with the sail-maker. I often think of that, now that Iâm ashore for good and all.
Yes, it was on a night like this, when I was at home for a spell, waiting to take the Olympia out on her first trip â it was on the next voyage that she broke the record, you remember â but that dates it. Ninety-two was the year, early in November.
The weather was dirty, Pratt was out of temper, and the dinner was bad, very bad indeed, which didnât improve matters, and cold, which made it worse. The poor little lady was very unhappy about it, and insisted on making a Welsh rarebit on the table to counteract the raw turnips and the half-boiled mutton. Pratt must have had a hard day. Perhaps he had lost a patient. At all events, he was in a nasty temper.
The Ghost of the Nineteenth Century by Phoebe Pember
The Ghost Room by Clara Merwin
Miss Massereeneâs Ghost by E.A. Henty
Vindication of the Supernatural by Manda L. Crocker
The Warneford Abbey Ghost by Ada Maria Jocelyn
A Speakinâ Ghost by Annie Trumbull Slosson
The Closed Cabinet by Lady Gwendolen Gascoyne-Cecil
The Little Green Door by Mary Eleanor Wilkins Freeman
The Death Spancel by Katharine Tynan
The House That Wouldnât Let by Mrs Hattie H. Howard
At the Witching Hour by Elizabeth Gibert Cunningham-Terry
The Oakleigh Ghost by Annie Armitt
About the Book
British Fantasy Award-winning editor J.A. Mains presents an all-female anthology of supernatural stories, first published between 1854 and 1900. Mains has trawled the archives to find fifteen tales which have not seen print since their original publications. Featuring cover art from multiple time British Fantasy Award-winner Les Edwards, and an introduction by Lynda Rucker, A Suggestion of Ghosts is an important volume for those interested in the Victorian era of supernatural tales.
Black Shuck is very proud to announce the first of two ghost story anthologies from Johnny (A J) Mains, an all-female anthology of ghost stories written from 1826 â 1897. Johnny has been deep in the cobwebbed archives of decaying periodicals, collections and newspapers and has found British, Irish, American and Australian stories that have never been anthologized since their original publication up to 190 years ago. Mains is thrilled that he can also attribute the correct authorship to âThe Closed Cabinetâ to Lady Gwendolyn Gascoyne-Cecil, which has been continuously published under the by-line âAnonâ since its original appearance in Blackwoodâs Edinburgh Magazine in January of 1895.
Mains feels that A Suggestion of Ghosts will be an invaluable book for those desperately seeking to read and research supernatural tales which have long faded away and have been forgotten about.
There will be a limited hardback edition of 100 numbered copies, with artwork by Edward Miller (Les Edwards) and Mike Mignola. The book will also be signed by Mains and Edwards. A Suggestion of Ghosts will also contain original publication dates of stories and biographies of the authors.
Two months after the publication of the hardback, there will be a simultaneous paperback and e-book release, this will contain two stories less than the hardback.
Not Exactly a Ghost Story by Mary Louisa Molesworth
A Bristol Ghost Story by Alice Horlor
The American Ghost by Lucretia P Hale
The Ghostly Lady by Harriet Elizabeth Prescott Spofford
The Room with the Staircase by Mrs E Fitzmaurice
Miss Tweedâs Ghost Story by Sarah Doudney
A Night in a Haunted House by (Mattie) May Jordan
The White Priest by HÊlène Gingold
Grannieâs Ghost Story by Lucy Hardy
The Ghost of My Dead Friend by Wilhelmina Fitzclarence, Countess of Munster
Playing the Ghost by Mrs Edith E Cuthell
A Chestnutting Ghost by Margaret Barringer
The Phantom Ride by Lyllian Huntley
About the Book
Following the success of A Suggestion of Ghosts, British Fantasy Award-winning editor J.A. Mains presents a second all-female anthology of ghost stories written between 1876 and 1902. Mains has once again been trawling the archives to find another fifteen tales, fourteen of which have not been anthologised since their original publications.
Featuring cover art from multiple time British Fantasy Award-winner Les Edwards, and an introduction by Melissa Edmundson, AN OBSCURITY OF GHOSTS will be another important volume for those interested in the Victorian era of supernatural tales.
This hardback edition of AN OBSCURITY OF GHOSTS will be limited to 50 numbered copies, each signed by editor J.A. Mains and artist Les Edwards.
A small group of industrial archaeologists head into the center of Newfoundland, investigating a rumor of a lost prospecting team of Irish miners in the late Nineteenth century.
They find the remains of a mining operation, and a journal and papers detailing the extent of the miners’ activities. But there is something else on the site, something older than the miners, as old as the rock itself.
Soon the archaeologists are coming under assault, from a strange infection that spreads like wildfire through mind and body, one that doctors seem powerless to define let alone control.
The survivors only have one option. They must return to the mine, and face what waits for them, down in the deep dark places, where the green meets the black…
âJust as you think things can’t get any worse in this story, it does. The ending will send chills down your spine. It did mine.â
âCat After Dark
âWilliam Meikle at his best, delivering strong, deftly-written prose entwined with a highly imaginative and richly-detailed mythological plot. It digs out the most disturbing elements of local folklore and legend and then uses them as a framework for a powerful, atmospheric and slow-burning piece of horror fiction that is often almost unbearably tense.â
âThe Sci-Fi and Fantasy
About the Author
William Meikle is a Scottish writer, now living in Canada, with over twenty five novels published in the genre press and over 300 short story credits in thirteen countries. He have books available from a variety of publishers including Dark Regions Press, DarkFuse and Dark Renaissance, and his work has appeared in a number of professional anthologies and magazines. Meikle lives in Newfoundland with whales, bald eagles and icebergs for company and when heâs not writing he drinks beer, plays guitar, and dreams of fortune and glory.
Where do you search for a guy who was never there to begin with?
Cover of the original hardback edition (Pinterest).
Iâve been wanting to read this for years. You should join me! I found the very affordable Kindle edition (link below) and decided itâs time. Hereâs a sample of the prose and some info on the book and the creepy 1987 film it inspired Starring Mickey Route, Lisa Bonet, and Robert DeNiro (as the Devil)…
Click thumbnails below to enlarge…
Following is a short writeup from toomuchhorrorfiction.com…
Hard-boiled crime writers like Dashiell Hammett, James M. Cain, and Raymond Chandler were vastly influential on a whole range of 20th century literature, except, I think, horror fiction. With their post-Hemingway style of terseness and understatement they seem to be the antithesis of horror writing. While these authors got their start in the pulp magazines of the pre-WWII era just like H.P. Lovecraft, it’s only been within the last 10 or 15 years that Lovecraft has been taken seriously by more mainstream academics, literary critics, and taste-makers, while those crime novelists have been lauded for decades.
The original hard cover edition from 1978. Finding a copy in good condition is quite rare today (Pinterest).
But I don’t think it was until Falling Angel (Fawcett Popular Library 1982 edition above) that the genres of hardboiled crime and horror met, thanks to author William Hjortsberg. He has said he came up with the idea when in high school, winning an award for a short story whose first lines were “Once upon a time, the devil hired a private detective.” Brilliant.
The Author William Hjortsberg, 1978.
Set in a wonderfully-depicted New York City 1959, Falling Angel is the story of hard-boozing private detective Harry Angel (“I always buy myself a drink after finding a body. It’s an old family custom”), hired by the mysterious Mr. Cyphre to find the missing ’40s crooner Johnny Favorite, a big band star very much like Sinatra. Horribly injured physically and psychologically while serving as an entertainer in the war, Johnny ends up in a VA hospital, but then disappears one night…
Inside the 1979 UK paperback edition. Artist unknown (toomuchhorrorfiction.com).
Angel tracks down Johnny’s former doctor, who then turns up dead; next Angel speaks to an old band member of Johnny’s, “Toots” Sweet (but of course) who tells him Johnny was mixed up in voodoo and the black arts, can you dig it, and crossed ethnic barriers no one dared cross in the 1940s when he became the lover of a voodoo priestess. Toots ends up dead too. Horribly dead. You get the picture. Angel ends up involved with the priestess’s daughter, Epiphany Proudfoot, a carnally-driven young woman who believes acrobatic sex is how we speak to the voodoo gods. Awesome.
The 1986 Warner Books paperback edition was a bit more frightening and less ânoirâ than earlier editions (toomuchhorrorfiction.com).
There’s more; much more. Falling Angel is, in a word, spectacular. It’s inventive while playing by the “rules” of detective fiction; it’s appropriately bloody and violent; its unholy climax in an abandoned subway station is effectively unsettling and graphic.
Click on thumbnails below to enlarge…
Original Cinema Quad Poster – Movie Film Posters
Hjortsberg knows his hard-boiled lingo and the New York of the time and makes it all believable. This is no humorous pastiche or parody; it’s a stunning crime novel bled through with visceral horrors of the most personal and, in the end, damning kind.
IT WAS FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH and yesterdayâs snowstorm lingered in the streets like a leftover curse. The slush outside was ankle-deep. Across Seventh Avenue a treadmill parade of lightbulb headlines marched endlessly around Times Towerâs terra cotta façade: ⌠HAWAII IS VOTED INTO UNION AS 50TH STATE: HOUSE GRANTS FINAL APPROVAL, 232 TO 89; EISENHOWERâS SIGNATURE OF BILL ASSURED ⌠Hawaii, sweet land of pineapples and Haleloki; ukeleles strumming, sunshine and surf, grass skirts swaying in the tropical breeze.
I spun my chair around and stared out at Times Square. The Camels spectacular on the Claridge puffed fat steam smoke rings out over the snarling traffic. The dapper gentleman on the sign, mouth frozen in a round O of perpetual surprise, was Broadwayâs harbinger of spring. Earlier in the week, teams of scaffold-hung painters transformed the smokerâs dark winter homburg and chesterfield overcoat into seersucker and panama straw; not as poetic as the Capistrano swallows, but it got the message across. My building was built before the turn of the century; a four-story brick pile held together with soot and pigeon dung. An Easter bonnet of billboards flourished on the roof, advertising flights to Miami and various brands of beer. There was a cigar store on the corner, a Pokerino parlor, two hot dog stands, and the Rialto Theatre, mid-block. The entrance was tucked between a peep-show bookshop and a novelty place, show windows stacked with whoopee cushions and plaster dog turds.
My office was two flights up, in a line with Olgaâs Electrolysis, Teardrop Imports, Inc., and Ira Kipnis, C.P.A. Eight-inch gold letters gave me the edge over the others: CROSSROADS DETECTIVE AGENCY, a name I bought along with the business from Ernie Cavalero, who took me on as his legman back when I first hit the city during the war.
I was about to go out for coffee when the phone rang. âMr. Harry Angel?â a distant secretary trilled. âHerman Winesap of McIntosh, Winesap, and Spy calling.â
I grunted something pleasant and she put me on hold.
Herman Winesapâs voice was as slick as the greasy kid stuff hair oil companies like to warn you about. He introduced himself as an attorney. That meant his fees were high. A guy calling himself a lawyer always costs a lot less. Winesap sounded so good I let him do most of the talking.
âThe reason I called, Mr. Angel, was to ascertain whether your services were at present available for contract.â
âWould this be for your firm?â
âNo. Iâm speaking in behalf of one of our clients. Are you available for employment?â
âDepends on the job. Youâll have to give me some details.â
âMy client would prefer to discuss them with you in person. He has suggested that you have lunch with him today. One oâclock sharp at the Top of the Sixâs.â
âMaybe youâd like to give me the name of this client, or do I just look for some guy wearing a red carnation?â
âHave you a pencil handy? Iâll spell it for you.â
I wrote the name LOUIS CYPHRE on my desk pad and asked how to pronounce it.
Herman Winesap did a swell job, rolling his râs like a Berlitz instructor. I asked if the client was a foreigner?
âMr. Cyphre carries a French passport. I am not certain of his exact nationality. Any questions you might have no doubt heâll be happy to answer at lunch. May I tell him to expect you?â
âIâll be there, one oâclock sharp.â
Attorney Herman Winesap made some final unctuous remarks before signing off. I hung up and lit one of my Christmas Montecristos in celebration.
Chapter 2
666 FIFTH AVENUE WAS an unhappy marriage of the International Style and our own homegrown tailfin technology. It had gone up two years before between 52nd and 53rd streets: a million square feet of office space sheathed in embossed aluminum panels. It looked like a forty-story cheese grater. There was a waterfall in the lobby, but that didnât seem to help.
I took an express elevator to the top floor, got a number from the hatcheck girl, and admired the view while the maĂŽtre dâ gave me the once-over like a government-meat inspector grading a side of beef. His finding Cyphreâs name in the reservation book didnât exactly make us pals. I followed him back through a polite murmuring of executives to a small table by a window.
Seated there in a custom-made blue pin-stripe suit with a blood-red rosebud in his lapel was a man who might have been anywhere between forty-five and sixty. His hair was black and full, combed straight back on a high forehead, yet his square-cut goatee and pointed moustache were white as ermine. He was tanned and elegant; his eyes a distant, ethereal blue. A tiny, inverted golden star gleamed on his maroon silk necktie. âIâm Harry Angel,â I said, as the maĂŽtre dâ pulled out my chair. âA lawyer named Winesap said there was something you wanted to speak to me about.â
âI like a man whoâs prompt,â he said. âDrink?â
I ordered a double Manhattan, straight up; Cyphre tapped his glass with a manicured finger and said heâd have one more of the same. It was easy to imagine those pampered hands gripping a whip. Nero must have had such hands. And Jack the Ripper. It was the hand of emperors and assassins. Languid, yet lethal, the cruel, tapered fingers perfect instruments of evil.
When the waiter left, Cyphre leaned forward and fixed me with a conspiratorâs grin. âI hate to bother with trivialities, but Iâd like to see some identification before we get started.â
I got out my wallet and showed him my photostat and honorary chiefs button. âThereâs a gun permit and driverâs license in there, too.â
He flipped through the celluloid card holders and when he handed back the wallet his smile was ten degrees whiter. âI prefer to take a man at his word, but my legal advisors insisted upon this formality.â
âIt usually pays to play it safe.â
âWhy, Mr. Angel, I would have thought you were a gambling man.â
âOnly when I have to be.â I listened hard for any trace of an accent, but his voice was like polished metal, smooth and clean, as if it had been buffed with banknotes from the day he was born. âSuppose we get down to business,â I said. âIâm not much good at small talk.â
âAnother admirable trait.â Cyphre withdrew a gold and leather cigar case from his inside breast pocket, opened it, and selected a slender, greenish panatela. âCare for a smoke?â I declined the proffered case and watched Cyphre trim the end of his cigar with a silver penknife.
âDo you by any chance remember the name Johnny Favorite?â he asked, warming the panatelaâs slim length in the flame of his butane lighter.
I thought it over. âWasnât he a crooner with a swing band back before the war?â
âThatâs the man. An overnight sensation, as the press agents like to say. Sang with the Spider Simpson orchestra in 1940. Personally, I loathed swing music and canât recall the titles of his hit recordings; there were several, in any case. He created a near-riot at the Paramount Theatre two years before anyone ever heard of Sinatra. You should remember that, the Paramountâs over in your part of town.â
âJohnny Favoriteâs before my time. In 1940, I was just out of high school, a rookie cop in Madison, Wisconsin.â
âFrom the Midwest? I would have taken you for a native New Yorker.â
âNo such animal, at least not above Houston Street.â
âVery true.â Cyphreâs features were shrouded in blue smoke as he puffed his cigar. It smelled like excellent tobacco, and I regretted not taking one when I had the chance. âThis is a city of outsiders,â he said. âIâm one myself.â
âWhere are you from?â I asked.
âLet us say Iâm a traveler.â Cyphre waved away a wreath of cigar smoke, flashing an emerald the Pope himself would have kissed.
âFine with me. Why did you ask about Johnny Favorite?â
The waiter set our drinks on the table with less intrusion than a passing shadow.
âA pleasant voice, all things considered.â Cyphre raised his glass to eye level in a silent European toast. âAs I said, I could never stomach swing music; too loud and jumpy for my taste. But Johnny sounded sweet as a caroler when he wanted to. I took him under my wing when he was first getting started. He was a brash, skinny kid from the Bronx. Mother and father both dead. His real name wasnât Favorite, it was Jonathan Liebling. He changed it for professional reasons; Liebling wouldnât have looked nearly as good in lights. Do you know what happened to him?â
I said I had no idea whatsoever.
âHe was drafted in January â43. Because of his professional talents, he was assigned to the Special Entertainment Services Branch and in March he joined a troop show in Tunisia. Iâm not certain of the exact details; there was an air raid one afternoon during a performance. The Luftwaffe strafed the bandstand. Most of the troupe was killed. Johnny, through some quirk of fortune, escaped with facial and head injuries. Escaped is the wrong word. He was never the same again. Iâm not a medical man, so I canât be very precise about his condition. Some form of shell shock, I suppose.â
I said I knew something about shell shock myself.
âReally? Were you in the war, Mr. Angel?â
âFor a few months right at the start. I was one of the lucky ones.â
âWell, Johnny Favorite was not. He was shipped home, a total vegetable.â
âThatâs too bad,â I said, âbut where do I fit in? What exactly do you want me to do?â
Cyphre stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray and toyed with the age-yellowed ivory holder. It was carved in the shape of a coiled serpent with the head of a crowing rooster. âBe patient with me, Mr. Angel. Iâm getting to the point, however circuitously. I gave Johnny some help at the start of his career. I was never his agent, but I was able to use my influence in his behalf. In recognition of my assistance, which was considerable, we had a contract. Certain collateral was involved. This was to be forfeited in the event of his death. Iâm sorry that I canât be more explicit, but the terms of our agreement specified that the details remain confidential.
âIn any event, Johnnyâs case was hopeless. He was sent to a veteranâs hospital in New Hampshire and it seemed as if he would spend the remainder of his life in a ward, one of the unfortunate discards of war. But Johnny had friends and money, a good deal of money. Although he was by nature profligate, his earnings for the two years prior to his induction were considerable; more than any one man could squander. Some of this money was invested, with Johnnyâs agent having power of attorney.â
âThe plot begins to grow complicated,â I said.
âIndeed it does, Mr. Angel.â Cyphre tapped his ivory cigar holder absently against the rim of his empty glass, making the crystal chime like distant bells. âFriends of Johnnyâs had him transferred to a private hospital upstate. There was some sort of radical treatment. Typical psychiatric hocus-pocus, I suppose. The end result was the same; Johnny remained a zombie. Only the expenses came out of his pockets instead of the governmentâs.â
âDo you know the names of these friends?â
âNo. I hope you wonât consider me entirely mercenary when I tell you that my continuing interest in Jonathan Liebling concerns only our contractual arrangement. I never saw Johnny again after he went away to war. All that mattered was whether he was alive or dead. Once or twice each year, my attorneys contact the hospital and obtain from them a notarized affidavit stating he is indeed still among the living. This situation remained unchanged until last weekend.â
âWhat happened then?â
âSomething very curious. Johnnyâs hospital is outside Poughkeepsie. I was in that vicinity on business and, quite on the spur of the moment, decided to pay my old acquaintance a visit. Perhaps I wanted to see what sixteen years in bed does to a man. At the hospital, I was told visiting hours were on weekday afternoons only. I insisted, and the doctor in charge made an appearance. He informed me that Johnny was undergoing special therapy and could not be disturbed until the following Monday.â
I said: âSounds like you were getting the runaround.â
âIndeed. There was something about the fellowâs manner I didnât like.â Cyphre slipped his cigar holder into his vest pocket and folded his hands on the table. âI stayed over in Poughkeepsie until Monday and returned to the hospital, making certain to arrive during visiting hours. I never saw the doctor again, but when I gave Johnnyâs name, the girl at the reception desk asked if I was a relative. Naturally, I said no. She said only family members were permitted to visit with the patients.â
âNo mention of this the previous time around?â
âNot a word. I grew quite indignant. Iâm afraid I made something of a scene. That was a mistake. The receptionist threatened to call the police unless I left immediately.â
âWhat did you do?â
âI left. What else could I do? Itâs a private hospital. I didnât want any trouble. Thatâs why Iâm engaging your services.â
âYou want me to go up there and check it out for you?â
âExactly.â Cyphre gestured expansively, turning his palms upward like a man showing he has nothing to hide. âFirst, I need to know if Johnny Favorite is still aliveâthatâs essential. If he is, Iâd like to know where.â
I reached inside my jacket and got out a small leather-bound notebook and a mechanical pencil. âSounds simple enough. Whatâs the name and address of the hospital?â
âThe Emma Dodd Harvest Memorial Clinic; itâs located east of the city on Pleasant Valley Road.â
I wrote it down and asked the name of the doctor who gave Cyphre the runaround.
âFowler. I believe the first name was either Albert or Alfred.â
I made a note of it. âIs Favorite registered under his actual name?â
âYes. Jonathan Liebling.
âThat should do it.â I put the notebook back and got to my feet. âHow can I get in touch with you?â
âThrough my attorney would be best.â Cyphre smoothed his moustache with the tip of his forefinger. âBut youâre not leaving? I thought we were having lunch.â
âHate to miss a free meal, but if I get started right away I can make it up to Poughkeepsie before quitting time.â
âHospitals donât keep business hours.â
âThe office staff does. Any cover I use depends on it. Itâll cost you money if I wait until Monday. I get fifty dollars a day, plus expenses.â
âSounds reasonable for a job well done.â
âThe job will get done. Satisfaction guaranteed. Iâll give Winesap a call as soon as anything turns up.â
âPerfect. A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Angel.â
The maĂŽtre dâ was still sneering when I stopped for my overcoat and attachĂŠ case on the way out.
Links
To Read the rest of this book, you can grab a copy at the link below! (And remember the Kindle reading app is free for PC, tablet, iOS, and Android.)
Great film review of Angel Heart (Watch the Filmâs Trailer at the end of this post.)
The Sanguine Woods 