A Noise Downstairs

by Linwood Barclay

  She lived on Park Boulevard in Stratford in a sprawling ranch house with flagstone-style siding. On the other side of Park was a narrow strip of land, and then Long Island Sound. It was a stunning view, Long Island itself nothing more than a sliver of land on the horizon.

  There was a green SUV in the driveway, tailgate open. The cargo area was half-filled with luggage and bags. As Paul turned into the drive, Angelique came out of the house dragging a small, wheeled suitcase. Her eyes widened with surprise as she spotted him getting out of his Subaru.

  “Paul,” she said. “Oh, my.”

  There was still a trace of her French accent. She had told Paul her history once, about moving to America from Paris when she was only ten. Her parents had both been offered teaching positions at Cornell University. When she spoke, it was evident she was not from around here, but several decades removed from France had made it difficult to pinpoint her origins. She was a petite woman with gray-blond hair that hung in wisps over her eyes.

  He waited for her around the back of the car and reached for the case when she got there.

  “Let me,” he said.

  He grabbed the case and tucked it into the back.

  “Thank you,” she said, “although don’t be offended if Charles rearranges it. He packs the trunk like it’s a game of Tetris.”

  Charles, Paul recalled, was not the name of her former husband. Angelique caught his blank expression and smiled. “My new boyfriend. We’ve rented a place in Maine for the next three weeks.”

  “Sounds fantastic,” Paul said.

  “You look well,” she said.

  He wasn’t so sure about that, but he accepted the compliment with a shrug. “Forgive me for showing up unannounced.”

  She smiled. “No one comes along here by accident. I’m a bit off the beaten path.”

  He nodded. “No, it’s not an accident.”

  Paul told her, as briefly as he could, about his project but this time leaving out anything to do with the typewriter.

  “So you’re trying to figure out what makes Kenneth tick,” she said.

  “In a nutshell. You told the newspaper you were surprised.”

  “Who wasn’t surprised? He is an enigma, our Kenneth. He cast his spell over me for a while. I never thought I’d be the kind to—”

  A tanned, trim, silver-haired man in shorts came striding out of the house. “What happened to you?” he called out to Angelique. “There’s still the food to—”

  He stopped when he saw that she was talking to someone. “Oh, sorry.”

  Angelique introduced Charles and Paul to each other. While she mentioned Paul was a colleague, she did not get into what had happened to him.

  “I bought this car from Charles,” Angelique said.

  He smiled. “She came into the dealership, and I thought, I don’t care if I sell this woman a car, but I definitely want her phone number.”

  “Love, just start filling the cooler with the stuff on the right side of the fridge,” she said.

  If Charles understood he was being dismissed, he offered no clue. “Sure. Nice to meet you, Paul.”

  Paul nodded. As Charles went back into the house, Angelique said, “If there’s something you want to ask, now’s your chance.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  She cast an eye out over the sound. “Like I said, an enigma. He was a charmer. Did you know he wrote poetry?”

  “I’d heard,” he said.

  “I’d sometimes find, in my interoffice mail, or under my door, a short poem he’d typed up. Little love poems.” She grinned. “Quite terrible, actually.” She gave Paul a knowing smile. “I would imagine an English professor would be better at that sort of thing, but Kenneth, well, there’s not a lot of romance attached to math and physics. But he tried.”

  “Do you remember any of them?”

  She shook her head. “They were forgettable, and at some point I threw them all away. I remember one, about how beautifully shaped women are, one of nature’s most glorious achievements.” She laughed. “It was embarrassing. I look back and wonder what possible clues there were that I did not pick up, that would have offered a hint to what he was capable of.”

  The same poem he’d tried out on Charlotte, Paul recalled. Maybe Kenneth had only had one poem in him.

  “Let me tell you a story. After our . . . is dalliance too precious a word? Although, at the time I may have taken it more seriously than that. Anyway, it was over, and had been for some time, and he and I happened to be in the faculty lounge. Not talking, not interacting at all, and I was aware he was there. It was awkward; I tried to avoid him. I was about to leave when I got a call on my cell that my son, Armand, had been injured. He was eight at the time, and a car had clipped him at a crosswalk by the school. He’d been taken to the hospital. It turned out, thank God, not to be life threatening, but it was serious. I nearly collapsed. My husband was out of the country on business. Kenneth asked what had happened. He took me to the hospital—I was in no condition to drive—and he stayed with me there the entire night. I told him to go home, but he wouldn’t leave. God knows what he told Gabriella about where he was, but he kept me company, went and found a doctor when I hadn’t had an update in hours. He looked after me. And there was never a hint that he wanted anything in return. He saw I needed help, and he helped me.”

  She paused. “And that’s the man who slit those women’s throats.”

  _________________

  PAUL DECIDED TO TAKE ANOTHER SHOT AT HAROLD FOSTER.

  He recalled a book he’d once read by a legendary Miami police reporter. Often, when she’d call the family of a murder victim, hoping to add some personal details to her story, she’d get a slammed phone in her ear. So she’d wait a few minutes and try again, saying she’d somehow been cut off. Often, in the interim, another family member would argue in favor of talking to the press, that the world needed to know that, no matter what the cops might say, their dead relative was a decent human being, not some lowlife who had it coming.

  Harold’s situation was not quite the same, but he might have had a similar change of heart.

  After his visit with Angelique, he took a route that went past Milford Savings & Loan. As he neared the bank, there was Foster, coming out the front door, heading for the adjacent parking lot. Paul quickly pulled over to the curb, turned off the car, and got out. The banker was nearly to his car when he saw Paul approaching. He stopped.

  “Harold,” Paul said, trying to sound agreeable.

  Foster was speechless.

  “I’m hoping, since we last spoke, you might be willing to reconsider answering a few more questions.”

  “What the hell is wrong with you? Leave me alone.”

  “Listen, I’m sorry about this, I really am, but if you don’t want to help me now, then I’ll be back tomorrow. And if you won’t help me then, I’ll be back the day after that.”

  “Mr. Davis, I understand that what happened to you was traumatic. Guess what? What happened to me was traumatic. Why can’t you get that through your thick, damaged skull?”

  “So, I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

  Foster sighed with exasperation. “Fine. What the hell do you want?”

  Now that Foster appeared to have surrendered, Paul had to work up his courage to ask his question.

  Paul nodded sheepishly. He felt his face flush.

  “The truth is, I really have just one question for you, and you’re going to think it’s a strange one. Or, I don’t know, maybe you won’t.”

  Foster stiffened.

  “Have you ever, since your wife passed away . . . have you ever felt—this is the strange part but bear with me—that she was trying to connect with you in some way?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What I’m wondering is, have you ever felt as though she was talking to you? You know how, when you lose a loved one, in some way they’re still with you?”

  “A loved one,” Harold Foster said flatly.

 
“Yes.”

  “You’re quite serious.”

  “I am.”

  “And you’re asking this why?”

  Paul hesitated. “I’d be grateful if you indulged me without my having to explain.”

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll answer your goddamn question.” A sly grin crossed his face. “Sometimes I can imagine Jill speaking to me. I hear her voice in the back of my head.”

  “You do?” Paul felt his heart do a small flip of encouragement.

  “I do.”

  “What do you hear her saying?”

  “She’s saying, ‘You lucky bastard. Kenneth Hoffman did you a real favor, didn’t he?’”

  Paul’s mouth opened. He was struck not just by the comment, but also by Harold Foster now being willing to utter his wife’s killer’s name.

  “And you know what I say back to her?” Foster continued. “I say, ‘You’re damn right.’ That’s what I say. Hoffman rid me of a two-timing, conniving bitch.” He shook his head. “Since she died, if you want to know the absolute fucking truth, I’ve never felt better. It’s like I’ve been cured of cancer. I feel that I can start my life over.”

  Paul wondered if he looked as stunned by Harold’s words as he felt.

  “It was so much easier, honestly, than a divorce. So many times I considered asking her for one, but the thought of the process stopped me. The fights, the recriminations, the lawyers, the sleepless nights, the division of property. It’s endless. How easy it would be, to avoid all that, to just kill your spouse. But, of course, I’d never have done such a thing. I’d never even have contemplated it. But what Hoffman did, it makes me realize now, what a magnificent time saver murder is. There are times I wonder if I should write him a check.”

  Paul couldn’t think of a follow-up question.

  “Does that about take care of it?” Foster asked. When Paul said nothing, the man unlocked his car, got in, and started the engine.

  Paul was still standing there as Foster drove out.

  _________________

  PAUL REALIZED, AS HE TURNED ONTO HIS STREET, THAT CHARLOTTE’S car was directly in front. She hit her blinker, turned into their driveway, and he drove in right behind her. They each got out of their cars at the same moment.

  “Hey,” Charlotte said, walking toward him.

  “Hey,” he said.

  She approached him tentatively, eyes down, the way a girl might act if she were asking a boy to dance. But it wasn’t shyness. She appeared almost fearful.

  “There’s something I want to tell you I did, because I don’t want you finding out on your own and getting angry, wondering why I didn’t tell you.”

  “What are you talking about?” he said worriedly.

  She looked him in the eye. “I went to see Dr. White.”

  Paul said nothing.

  “I’m just so worried about you, Paul,” she said. “You’re scaring me half to death. I’m not sorry I went to see her. I don’t care how mad you get. I had to talk to her.”

  Paul wasn’t angry. He put his hands on her shoulders. “It’s okay.” He paused. “What did she say?”

  Charlotte, eyes brimming with tears, said, “What could she say? She’s not allowed to say anything. You’re her patient. I’m not.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I don’t know what’s happening with you. You assaulted a man! You come home, then you take off. I don’t know where you’re going, who you’re going to see. You think you feel like you’re losing your mind? Well guess what? Me, too.”

  He tried to pull her into his arms, but she resisted. When he pulled a little harder, she allowed him to hold her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “I need you to listen to me,” she said. “I want you to get help. You have to promise me that if Dr. White can’t help you, you’ll see someone else. You’ll get to the bottom of all this. You’ll find out why you’re . . . why you’re doing the things you’re doing.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to do. I’ve been out all day, talking to people.”

  “What people?”

  Paul told her, prompting a concerned sigh.

  “Do you really think that’s the best thing to do? Getting all those people involved. I mean, the more people you talk to, the more people who are going to think you’re—”

  She stopped herself.

  “The more people who are going to think I’m what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Crazy? The more people are going to think I’m crazy? Is that what you wanted to say?”

  “That’s not what—I can’t take any more. I just can’t.”

  She turned. Her keys were still in her hand, and she used them to unlock the front door. She went in, closed the door behind her, leaving Paul standing there in the driveway.

  I’m losing her, he thought. If she doesn’t believe me, where am I?

  Without Charlotte’s support, he wasn’t sure he had the strength to get through this. Whatever this was.

  The front door reopened. Charlotte stood there, crying.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “What is it?”

  “It’s not funny anymore, Paul,” she said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Why are you doing this? Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Charlotte, what are you talking about?”

  She pointed a finger over her shoulder. Paul ran past her and into the house, taking the steps up to the kitchen two at a time. When he reached the top, he froze.

  The kitchen floor was littered with paper.

  Single sheets. The same kind of paper that was loaded into his printer. At a glance, twenty, maybe thirty sheets. Scattered all over the room.

  A line typed on each one.

  Paul bent over, started grabbing the sheets, one by one. Reading them. He tried to keep his hands from shaking, but each page in his hands was like a leaf in a windstorm.

  Blood everywhere

  Laughter as we screamed

  What did we do to deserve this?

  We were unfaithful but that shouldn’t be a death sentence Paul lifted his gaze from the clutch of pages in his hand and looked toward the study door.

  The Underwood, without a sheet of paper in it, stared back at him.

  Paul felt himself being watched and turned to see Charlotte standing at the top of the stairs.

  “Just tell me the truth,” she said. “Is it you?”

  He looked her in the eye. “No. I swear.”

  She nodded very slowly, turned to look at the typewriter, and said, “Then we have to get that fucking thing out of here.”

  Thirty-Four

  Paul didn’t need any time to come up with a plan.

  “We take this thing, we put it in the trunk, we drive to the middle of the bridge, and drop it in the goddamn Housatonic.”

  Charlotte nodded. “We could. We could do that. I like that idea.”

  Paul eyed her skeptically. “I’m hearing a but.”

  “Okay, if that’s what you want to do, fine, but you better do it at night. You toss something into the river and you’ll be up on some environmental charge. Littering, something. And how are you going to explain yourself if the police come by? Why does a person drop a typewriter off a bridge? What’s your story going to be? And even at night, there are probably traffic cameras.”

  Paul shook his head slowly. “Is there another bridge, another place where—”

  Charlotte raised a hand. “Look, for now, let’s get it out of here. We can talk about where to get rid of it permanently later.” She thought for a moment as they stood, shoulder to shoulder, looking at the Underwood. “The garage.”

  Paul bit his lip. “How does that solve the problem? If there’s really something going on with this thing, moving it out of here won’t make it stop.”

  “Neither would dropping it into the river, but whether it’s there, or in the garage, you’ll stop hearing it in the night,” Charlotte said. “This . . . th
ing can type out as many notes at it wants in the garage. If we don’t know about it, we don’t have to care.”

  “Okay,” he said, a hint of defeat in his voice. “I’m in.”

  He got his hands under the typewriter. It was, he realized, the first time he had ever moved it.

  “This thing is heavy,” he remarked.

  “I told you,” she said. “It’s a fridge with keys.”

  Careful not to slip on any of the sheets of paper still on the floor, Paul walked the typewriter across the kitchen and down to the first floor. At the foot of the stairs, at right angles to the front door, was the second door—also fitted with a dead bolt lock—that led into the garage. Charlotte got ahead of Paul, turned back the bolt, opened the door, and held it for her husband. Being an interior door that led to a garage, it had a spring-loaded hinge to guard against possible carbon monoxide mishaps.

  She flicked on the light switch. The garage was littered with cardboard boxes, several old bicycles, unneeded furniture.

  “That,” Paul said, nodding at something in the corner.

  Charlotte pointed to a wooden antique blanket box tucked up against the wall. “This?”

  Paul nodded, shifting the weight of the typewriter from one arm to the other. “Yeah. Open that up. See if there’s anything in it.”

  The box was about three feet wide, a foot and a half high and deep. Charlotte lifted the lid.

  “There’s a bunch of old Life magazines and National Geographics and stuff in there.”

  “God, why do we have those? They were my parents’. Can you shove them over, make enough space for this thing?”

  Charlotte got down on her knees and started piling magazines over to one side, creating a cavity on the left.