boucher book oct28.pdf - Index of

428 Anthony Boucher
“What? Oh.” Miss Wentz looked at The Blood. “That’s supposed to be over
on the other side. He doesn’t want anything on that.”
“I found it here,” he protested mildly.
“I’d swear I put it over with the rejects.” She rose and thrust it in its proper
place. “Well, it’s there now.”
The Reverend frowned at his finger. “What frightful ink in that odd book!
Look how it comes off.”
Miss Wentz reached in the drawer. “Here’s a Kleenex.”
But rub though he would, the stain persisted. He was still at it, and rather
wishing that he might revert to the vocabulary of his undergraduate days,
when Mark Mallow came in.
The word usually used for Mark Mallow was clever, or sometimes even brilliant.
People always said how much they admired his work, or how entertaining
he was. They were never heard to say anything so simple as “Mallow? Yeah, a
swell guy.” Mallow wore, among other necessary items, a trim Van Dyke and a
jaunty hat and a bright bow tie. You had a feeling that he might have added
spats and a cane if that had not been a little too much for San Francisco. There
was a spring to his step and a constant smile on his lips, which were thus always
parted to show his teeth.
This was fair warning; for though Mark Mallow never barked, his bite was
an essential part of his life. Few people ever questioned his judgment in his
chosen field of criticism; Starrett and Queen and Sandoe were in constant correspondence
with him and respected his taste; but no one had ever accused
him of immoderate softheartedness. He was honest, and he wrote a rave review
when necessary; but the words sounded forced and compelled. His pannings,
on the other hand, were gems of concise assassination, surgically accurate
scalpel work that drew life blood.
He had fun.
Mallow nodded to The Reverend, smiled at Miss Wentz, and groaned at the
weekly stack of whodunits set aside for him. Then he looked over the general
section on the right, picked out a couple of works that bordered on his interests,
and paused with a whistle of amazement. He took down a book, stared at its
title page, and said, “I’ll be damned! If you’ll pardon me, Reverend?”
The Reverend, who had long concurred in the opinion, said “Quite.”
“Jerome Blackland, or I’ll be several things I shouldn’t mention here. Jot me
down for this, Miss Wentz, if you please; this ought to be good clean sport.”
Miss Wentz looked up automatically and then made a sharp little noise of
exasperation. “How did that get back there?”
“It was right here,” Mallow said.
“I know … and I’ll take my oath on a stack of Bibles that I put it over on the
left not once but twice. Didn’t I?”
The Reverend nodded. “I saw you.”
“And now it’s … Oh well. He doesn’t want it reviewed, but if it interests you
especially …”
“Why?” The Reverend asked.
Mallow extended the book open at its mad title page. “You see that unbe-