Читать книгу The Fourth Postman - Craig Inc. Rice - Страница 3

The sound of a dead body falling is like no other sound on earth, as any effects technician who has tried to create it in a radio studio will tell you. (Effects men differ, sometimes angrily, as to whether it should be a bumping sound, a plopping one, or a dull thud.)

Actually, it is all of those in one, and more. It is incredibly soft, unless the body has fallen a great distance. It is accompanied by a curious little sigh, as of the last breath leaving the body. It is, unmistakably and unforgettably, the sound of a man dying.

The killer waited, weapon in hand, and thought about the sound. It had become a familiar one. This would be the third time.

In the house nearby, a clock chimed ten. The killer stiffened, every nerve alert. It would be a matter of minutes, now. The victim, unaware of what was waiting for him, was on his way up the street, probably whistling.

A sudden pang of pity brought an almost anguished groan from the killer’s throat. Poor old man, he’d never harmed anybody in his life. No doubt he had a wife and family. Grandchildren, too, most likely. Probably lived in a modest bungalow somewhere in the suburbs, had a few cronies in for beer on Saturday nights, and went to church Sunday morning. Undoubtedly he looked forward to retiring on his pension, and raising chickens or rabbits in the back yard.

Perhaps—no, there could be no turning back. Once engaged in so difficult and dangerous a business as murder, one had to go on with it.

And there would, inevitably, be other murders in the days ahead.

There it was, the cheerful, mid-morning whistle. “Rose-Marie—I love you—” The killer’s eyes closed for a moment, and saw the imagined victim. A short, stocky man, past middle age, with thick gray hair under his cap, and plump, rosy cheeks. A man who whistled on his way up the street, and whose footsteps were brisk as they came along the walk.

For one last moment the killer speculated as to what the victim’s name might be.

A man who loved his wife, children and grandchildren, who had a few friends in for beer on Saturday night, who shepherded his family to church on Sunday morning and probably passed the collection plate, who had only a few more payments to make on his tiny suburban bungalow, in which he had great pride, and who planned to raise chickens or rabbits when he retired on his pension. …

The cheerful whistle was drawing near.

The killer’s hands tightened on the weapon.

At least, death would be quick and practically painless.

There was one blow, perfectly aimed.

And then that sound again, the soft sound, with the faint, expiring sigh.