Dead Letter Read Online Free Page A

everybody will want to pay.”
    â€œI won’t.”
    â€œSit, sit,” he said, indicating chairs. Herculeah and Meat sat across from Mr. Gamballi at the table.
    â€œNow let’s see what you’ve got.”
    Herculeah took out the piece of paper and wordlessly slid it across to him.
    He held it at arm’s length. “I don’t like to read the words until I’ve gotten my graphological impressions based on the look of the writing,” he explained.
    â€œHe did that with my dad’s letter,” Meat remarked to Herculeah.
    â€œThough the writing is unusually small.” Mr. Gamballi brought the paper closer.
    A clock in the hall ticked off the time. The seconds turned into minutes. Finally Meat broke the long silence. “Have you gotten any of those—what did you call them—graphological impressions, yet?”
    â€œDon’t rush me. You want your full eight dollars’ worth, don’t you?” There was a touch of scorn when he spoke of the amount.
    â€œYes,” Herculeah said.
    Meat said apologetically, “I wasn’t rushing you. It’s just that on my father’s letter, you told me right away that he was optimistic and quickly stirred to action.”
    â€œYour father’s letter was probably written in his normal handwriting style. That is not true of this letter.”
    Mr. Gamballi looked from Meat to Herculeah. “The words are unnaturally close together, leading me to believe the woman was under great tension when she wrote this. I think she usually had a more fluid, open style. Also, there are many breaks and jerks and tremors—here, here, here—that show a lot of trauma and anxiety.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThe woman herself was a well-educated, sensitive person, sympathetic and emotional—I can tell that from the slant of the writing—but she was definitely under great pressure when she wrote this.”
    He brought the paper even closer and began to read the words. Herculeah watched his face intently, watched the lines appear in his brow.
    He looked up, peering into Herculeah’s face with the same intense stare he had given the handwriting. “Where did you get this?”
    â€œI found it in the lining of a coat I bought.” She patted the lapels. “This coat.”
    â€œShouldn’t you take it to the police?”
    â€œI have—well, my dad’s a police detective and I was going to tell him about it, but he was out on a case.”
    â€œWho is your father?”
    â€œChico Jones.”
    He nodded. “I’ve done some work for him—those anonymous letters threatening that newscaster, what’s her name?” Mr. Gamballi didn’t seem to expect an answer. He turned his attention back to the paper.
    Herculeah said, “I’m sure my dad will help me, but I have to know more about this person now.”
    He looked at her. “This person felt she was going to be killed. She may have been.”
    â€œI have to know.”
    â€œAnd if she is dead, young lady, we’re talking about murder.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œAnd a murderer.”
    There was silence while Mr. Gamballi and Herculeah stared at each other, he with a look of warning, she with one of defiance.
    Meat felt left out. He said, “Can I ask you a question?”
    Mr. Gamballi nodded.
    â€œI wanted to know if she was, well, if she was ...” Meat paused. He had been about to say “loony tunes,” but he knew Herculeah would not appreciate that. “Sane,” he finished. He did not look at Herculeah because he knew she would not appreciate the question, no matter how nicely it was put. “I mean, before we start trying to find this woman, I want to rule out the possibility that it was someone who was paranoid, someone who just thought someone was after her.”
    â€œLet me look again.” Mr. Gamballi’s eyes narrowed. “There’s a balance