boucher book oct28.pdf - Index of

430 Anthony Boucher
look the type who would give his seat to a lady.) It is, I suppose, inevitable, Mallow
reflected, that those who seek to express the inexpressible should have no talent for
expression. (The lady did not look the type to refuse a seat either.) Surely worth
a choice stabbing little paragraph for the column. A joy, if only it weren’t for this
damned ink … (The seat remained vacant, in that crowded car, for the whole of the
trip. Mallow did not notice it; it seemed as though there were some one there.)
The Reverend was still a trifle perturbed. It was ridiculous that one should
worry about such a nothing as a minor chemical oddity. Had he not in fact
prepared a sermon for next Sunday decrying the modern materialists who
reduce everything to a series of chemical reactions?
But there was always one source of peace and consolation. The Reverend
took down his Bible, intending to turn to the psalms—the ninety-first, probably.
But he dropped the Book in astonishment.
It had happened so quickly it could scarcely be believed.
The smudge on his thumb had been black. In the instant that it touched the
Bible it turned blood-red, exactly like the stain on Mark Mallow’s hand. Then
there was a minute hissing noise and an instant of intense heat.
There was no smudge at all on his thumb now.
There was no one in Dr. Halstead’s office. The Reverend took up the phone
hastily and dialed the number of the Times. He said “Book department,” and
a moment later demanded urgently, “Miss Wentz? Can you give me Mallow’s
home address?”
Mark Mallow ate well, as he always did when he felt inclined to cook for himself.
The dinner was simple: a pair of rex sole, boiled rice (with a pinch of saffron),
and a tossed salad; but it could not have been satisfactorily duplicated even
in San Francisco, the city of restaurants.
A half bottle of decent Chablis with dinner and a brandy after (both from
California vineyards, but nowise despicable) had made Mallow mellow, as he
thought to himself with perverse delight in the jarring phrase. Now the insight
of Simenon would add pleasurably to his glow.
He settled himself in front of the fireplace. It was quiet up there in the
Berkeley hills. No, quiet was too mild a word. It was still—no, stronger yet—it
was stilled. Hushed and gently frozen into silence.
There was nothing in the world but the fire and his purring digestive system and
the book in his hand … The book was The Blood Is the Death and the fire shone on
his reddened hand.
Mark Mallow swore to himself, but he was too post-prandially lazy to move
from the chair. He opened the book and read on a little. His eyes half-closed;
high-flown gibberish is one of the finest soporifics. They jerked open and he
sat up with a start to greet the unexpected visitor.
The room was empty.
He swore again, in a half-hearted way. He turned his attention to those exquisitely
satisfactory digestive processes and noticed that they had reached a
point demanding some attention. He rose from the chair, carried The Blood over