Page 111 - Labelle Gramercy, Detective

Cat’s Paw

short-term memory. Of course! My boss. But he couldn’t have read
it; all he saw was an outline of the book—or so he said. But his folder
contained a contract for Home Security for the Technophobe. Or did it?
A door in the outer office opened and closed. I held my breath,
thwarting my thumping heart’s demands for more oxygen. Maybe I
could just look like I wasn’t breathing. Just a few short sniffs of air in
and out every ten seconds would suffice, I decided. Then footsteps
approached, stopping at the entrance to the office.
“Well, well, well. What have we here? It looks like someone has
been fooling around with his computer and gotten himself
electrocuted. What a shame! All his co-workers saw him open the
box and pull out chips and cards, loosen wires, substitute off-the-
shelf components. That power supply can deliver a tremendous jolt if
it’s not hooked up right. Yes, just a couple of misconnections and the
next person to turn on the machine gets fried.”
It was Mallard, gloating and evil. Nothing new, really.
“You were ideal, young fellow; too bad your talents brought you to
a sticky end. But you knew too much. You saw the book. And
nobody must ever see the book. Lesley, damn his hide, came too
close to my little secret in that cursed book. He had to die, too.
You’re number three, O’Bleakley; it really does get easier with
practice. Eh, you seem to be breathing a little. Maybe you need a bit
more juice to help you on your way. I’ll just—”
“Hold it, mister.” It was ex-Lola, Labelle, the lady cop. Mallard
gasped. He had crept up within a few inches of me, and his hand
brushed against me as he whirled around.
“What—what are you doing here?”
“You’re under arrest for the murders of Alice Mallard and Arthur
Lesley. Do you want me to read you your rights here or down at the
station?”
I decided it was time to give up being a corpse. I peeped at the
scene unfolding in the space between the desks and the door. Mallard
advanced slowly on Labelle Gramercy, who stood facing him, hands
at her sides, palms open and empty.
“Police, eh? Only one of you? And unarmed? That was a big
mistake, a big-big-big mistake.” The publisher picked up a ceramic
coffee mug from one of the desks. “I’m not done, not by a long shot.
Let’s see. How can we explain this? O’Bleakley picks up a woman, in

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