Free Fan Mail by Peter Robinson

 
    FAN MAIL
    T HE LETTER ARR IVED one sunny Thursday morning in August, along with a Visa bill and a royalty statement. Dennis Quilley carried the mail out to the deck of his Beaches home, stopping by the kitchen on the way to pour himself a gin and tonic. He had already been writing for three hours straight and he felt he deserved a drink.
    First he looked at the amount of the royalty check, then he put aside the Visa bill and picked up the letter carefully, as if he were a forensic expert investigating it for prints. Postmarked Toronto and dated four days earlier, it was addressed in a small, precise hand and looked as if it had been written with a fine-­nibbed calligraphic pen. But the postal code was different; that had been hurriedly scrawled in with a ballpoint. Whoever it was, Quilley thought, had probably got his name from the telephone directory and had then looked up the code in the post office just before mailing.
    Pleased with his deductions, Quilley opened the letter. Written in the same neat and mannered hand as the address, it said:
    Dear Mr. Quilley,
    Please forgive me for writing to you at home like
    this. I know you must be very busy, and it is
    inexcusable of me to intrude on your valuable time.
    Believe me, I would not do so if I could think of any
    other way.
    I have been a great fan of your work for many
    years now. As a collector of mysteries, too, I also
    have first editions of all your books. From what I
    have read, I know you are a clever man and, I hope,
    just the man to help me with my problem.
    For the past twenty years, my wife has been making
    my life a misery. I put up with her for the sake
    of the children, but now they have all gone to live
    their own lives. I have asked her for a divorce, but
    she just laughed in my face. I have decided, finally,
    that the only way out is to kill her and that is why
    I am seeking your advice.
    You may think this is insane of me, especially saying
    it in a letter, but it is just a measure of my desperation.
    I would quite understand it if you went
    straight to the police, and I am sure they would find
    me and punish me. Believe me, I’ve thought about
    it. Even that would be preferable to the misery I
    must suffer day after day.
    If you can find it in your heart to help a devoted
    fan in his hour of need, please meet me on the
    roof lounge of the Park Plaza Hotel on Wednesday,
    August 19, at two p.m. I have taken the afternoon
    off work and will wait longer if for any reason you
    are delayed. Don’t worry, I will recognize you
    easily from your photo on the dust jacket of your
    books.
    Yours, in hope,
    A Fan
    The letter slipped from Quilley’s hand. He couldn’t believe what he’d just read. He was a mystery writer—he specialized in devising ingenious murders—but for someone to assume that he did the same in real life was absurd. Could it be a practical joke?
    He picked up the letter and read through it again. The man’s whining tone and clichéd style seemed sincere enough, and the more Quilley thought about it, the more certain he became that none of his friends was sick enough to play such a joke.
    Assuming that it was real, then, what should he do? His impulse was to crumple up the letter and throw it away. But should he go to the police? No. That would be a waste of time. The real police were a terribly dull and literal-­minded lot. They would probably think he was seeking publicity.
    He found that he had screwed up the sheet of paper in his fist, and he was just about to toss it aside when he changed his mind. Wasn’t there another option? Go. Go and meet the man. Find out more about him. Find out if he was genuine. Surely there would be no obligation in that? All he had to do was turn up at the Park Plaza at the appointed time and see what happened.
    Quilley’s life was fine—no troublesome woman to torment him, plenty of money (mostly from American sales), a beautiful lakeside cottage near