He didn’t find anything unusual there; obviously, the shutter had indeed been opened by the wind. Dubois closed it again and, without returning to the office, went to his bedroom. There he carefully locked the door with two turns of a key, engaged a latch, examined the window, put two loaded pistols on a little bedside cabinet and only after all that went to bed, having left the oil lamp lit. Dubois couldn’t fall asleep for a long time, listening to the whining of the wind and rain noise beyond the window, but, at last, a heavy drowsiness possessed him…
About midnight the businessman suddenly opened his eyes as from a kick. The storm had ended; it was astonishingly quiet in the house. And in this silence, the remote creak of floor boards suddenly was heard. Dubois tried to convince himself that there was nothing unusuaclass="underline" in an old house something always squeaks and crackles. However, the sounds were too rhythmical and, seemingly, their source approached. In horror Dubois realized that he was hearing confident steps; someone strode through the house. Here creaked, opening, an office door; then it slammed—the stranger left there. Now the steps moved to the bedroom.
Dubois understood that it was necessary to take a pistol, but he could not move and lay in full helplessness. Steps stopped on the other side of the door. The new lock snapped, opening. Then the latch moved by itself. Dubois felt hair move on his head. The door silently opened. Behind it, there was nobody.
But the steps came nearer to the bed and stopped. Dubois smelled the disgusting stench of a decaying corpse. A cold whiff of air touched his face and at the next instant slippery ice-cold fingers seized the businessman’s neck. Dubois wanted to cry out, but a spasm blocked his throat. He desperately, but unsuccessfully, tried to move his hands; his heart beat furiously, he suffocated…
Dubois was awakened by his own shout. Still in the power of his nightmare, he jumped up on the bed, swinging hands, and knocked the lamp down from the bedside cabinet. The lamp fell and broke; burning kerosene spread on the floor, and tongues of flame licked the window curtain and the bed sheet which hung to the floor. Dubois, at last, awoke completely. In three jumps he crossed the bedroom and, having pushed the latch aside, jerked the door handle. But the door, of course, didn’t open, as the lock was locked on two turns and the key lay on the bedside cabinet. Having realized this fact, Dubois helplessly turned back: the cabinet was already on fire. For some seconds the businessman helplessly looked around in search of any object which could help him, but then he understood that he had to snatch the key out of the flames barehanded. When he, at last, rushed to the cabinet, the fire reached the pistols lying there. A shot banged; a strong and hot kick in the breast threw Dubois back onto the locked door, and he slowly slipped to the floor. The flame with a cheerful crackle was devouring the room furniture.
“Yesterday in the suburb of L. there was a strong fire, as a result of which the family estate of counts de Montreux completely burned out. The last owner, the Parisian businessman Jacques Dubois, was the only victim of the fire. It is supposed that he died because of his own imprudence.”
WINDY DAY IN WEST
The straight gray tape of the highway was rewinding under the Ford’s wheels at 75 mph. The hot southern wind drove across the road clouds of dust and tumbleweed spheres similar to skeletons of balls. Pete Palmer had needed to close the driver’s window that morning and since then the wind had only increased. A continuous haze hung over the yellow-orange desert. “The way things are going, I’ll have to slow down,” Pete thought. “Visibility is miserable even now.” It was 3 PM; he had been en route for 74 hours and had left his car only to do the deed. He ate and slept right in the car.
“Hello, friends, Dan Daniels with you on the hour,” sounded from the car radio. It was some local station. “What weather, huh? There hasn’t been a scorcher like this for years. Well, the weatherman says this heat will last at least several days more. So we have to do the best we can. I like lying in a cool bath and sipping martinis with ice. Too bad my studio doesn’t have a bath. Between you and me, I’m sitting here in my underpants only. Right now, I’m like the characters in the song you’ll hear next—it’s the hit of the month, ‘Hot Guys Is What I Like!’”
“Moron,” muttered Palmer and switched the radio off. The noise of the motor merged with the rustle of sand grains hitting the glass.
He finally noticed a figure on the roadside. He had nearly missed seeing it, not so much because of the dusty haze, but because he didn’t expect to see anybody out here. He had passed the last town about an hour ago—if a gas station with a poster “Last Gas For 100 miles” could be called a town—and, according to the road map, the next populated place was no closer. Unless there was some nearby ranch not designated on the map? Anyway, the person was here and held out a hand with the thumb up, expressing an eager desire to leave.
Just a minute ago Pete hadn’t considered picking up hitchhikers. Certainly, this guy stuck in the middle of the desert in stifling heat and a dust storm could hardly be envied, but those were his problems. Nevertheless, Palmer eased off the accelerator, wanting to look at the hitchhiker before passing him by.
It happened to be a girl. The wind fanned her short fair hair and billowed her loose T-shirt over worn jeans. A small backpack stood near her feet. On her T-shirt there was the question “ARE YOU SURE?” She wasn’t a beauty. Otherwise Pete would have definitely passed her by.
The Ford rolled briefly while the driver’s foot hovered between the gas and brake pedals—and, at last, Palmer chose the latter. “Yes,” he said. “I am sure.”
The girl, still not believing to her luck, hastily ran up to the car. She didn’t ask anything, just simply opened the door, dusted the sand off her jeans, and plopped into the passenger seat.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Where are you going?” inquired Pete, turning right and examining her more attentively.
“Ahead!”
“Means you’re going my way,” Palmer nodded, pressing the accelerator again.
The girl was silent and Pete thought that didn’t suit him. He could keep silent alone, which he actually did for the last 74 hours.
“Rather odd that nowadays a girl isn’t afraid to get in a stranger’s car this way,” he said. He dissembled a bit, as the appearance of his passenger actually didn’t make her an especially desired victim for a rapist. She was short—which could by itself interest the maniacs who craved subtlety and defenselessness; however her build was not subtle, but, on the contrary, too corpulent, with some excessive flab around her waist, while she still could not be called fat. And at the same time her breasts weren’t very well developed. Her round face was also quite ordinary and, besides, freckled. All in all, not very pretty. However, who knows what can get in the mind of a psychopath…
“You don’t look like a maniac, mister,” the girl said.
“As if you ever saw any,” Palmer grinned.
“Only in the movies,” she admitted. “Though my dear daddy can be worse than any maniac when he gets drunk—and the last time he was sober was three weeks before Christmas. Well, an explanation number two—I believe in destiny.”