Tengu by Graham Masterton Read Free Book Online Page B

torn into bits.’’
    Jerry took a
drink. His hand was trembling. “Do you have any idea who might have done it?
    Jesus–how can
anyone do something like that?”
    “We don’t know
yet. There are plenty of clear prints, stuff like that.”
    “My God,”
whispered Jerry. “She was so goddamned pretty.”
    “Did you know
her well?”
    Jerry looked
up. “Hardly at all. She left for work real early, and
I never get out of the sack before nine. But we waved jo each other over the fence sometimes, and I talked to her once at a neighborhood
party.”
    “What kind of a
girl would you say she was?”
    “Hard-working. Career-minded. Who
knows–I didn’t really think about it. I guess I saw her on television more
often than I did in the flesh.”
    Detective
Arthur sniffed. Jerry had turned on the air conditioning, and the flying fluff
was getting to his sinus condition. “Did you see any men friends coming and
going next door?”
    Jerry thought
about it, then shook his head. “Nobody
special. One or two friends, yes, but it seemed like they came in
groups, mostly. I never saw her with one special man.”
    “What about
you? Did she ever invite you next door?”
    “Once, to a
party, but I couldn’t go. My son was down here for his vacation, and I’d
promised to take him to a movie. He’s here now, as a matter of fact. I have to
go pick him up at two-thirty.
    He’s playing
baseball with some friends. You know how sociable kids arc these days.”
    Detective
Arthur said, “Do you mind if I ask you one or two personal questions, Mr.
Scnnett?”
    “I’m sure
you’re .going to anyway, whether I mind or not.”
    “You’re a
widower, right?”
    “That’s right.
My wife died six years ago come September. ‘‘
    “And you’re an
architect, retired?”
    “I still design
an occasional gazebo. How come you know so much about me?”
    “Neighbors.”
    “You mean my
neighbors know that much about me? My God, even loggias have ears.”
    Detective
Arthur jotted down a couple of notes. Then he said, “I understand you’re
undergoing analysis.”
    “Isn’t
everybody?”
    “Can you tell
me why?”
    Jerry sipped
his drink and looked at Detective Arthur over the rim of his glass.
    “You’re not
trying to prove that I’m crazy, I hope?”
    “I have to be
thorough, Mr. Sennett.”
    “Yes,” said
Jerry, “I guess you do.”
    He stood up and
walked across to the windows. He parted the drapes, so that a bright triangle
of sunshine fell across the worn-out rug. “I had a bad experience during the
war,’’ he said quietly.
    ‘‘It didn’t
make me crazy, but it left a lasting impression that sometimes makes me wonder
if it’s really worth carrying on.”
    “Suicidal?”
    “No, not exactly. Despairing, if you can
call it anything.”
    “Can you give
me the name of your analyst?”
    “Doctor
Grunwald. His office is on El Camino Drive.”
    “Expensive,
huh?” asked Detective Arthur.
    Jerry turned
away from the window. “With analysis, like everything else, you get what you
pay for.”
    “What sort of
progress arc you making? I’m going to have to check that out with Doctor
Grunwald in any case.’’
    “Progress? Some, I guess. I’m keeping happy. But I don’t
expect to get over it completely. When you’ve seen what men are really capable
of doing to other men–well, that’s an experience it’s hard to live with.”
    Detective Arthur
said, “If that’s the way you feel, it’s probably just as well you didn’t sec
Sherry Cantor this morning.’’
    Jerry finished
his drink. “Yes. It probably is.”
    “You didn’t
hear anything? Any shouting? Any
breaking glass?”
    “Not a thing.”
    “You didn’t
hear any cars? Maybe an engine revving up?”
    “I’m sorry. I
woke up at nine, or maybe a few minutes after. I fixed breakfast for David and
me, and then I took him straight down to the Whartons’ house on Rosewood. You
can check the time I got there. After that, I drove over to Bevcrly