The third Deadly Sin exd-3

by Lawrence Sanders

  "A place for everything and everything in its place," her mother was fond of remarking.

  She slipped shoes from her shrunken feet. She sat upright in a straight chair in the living room, hands folded primly on her lap. She watched dusk, twilight, darkness seep into the silent room.

  Perhaps she fainted, dozed, dreamed; it was impossible to know. She saw a deserted landscape. Nothing there but gray smoke curling.

  Then, as it thinned to fog, vapor, she saw a cracked and bloodless land. A jigsaw of caked mud. Craters and crusted holes venting steam. A barren world. No life stirring.

  How long she sat there, her mind intent on this naked vision, she could not have said. Yet when her telephone rang, she rose, quite sane, turned on the light, picked up the phone. The lobby attendant: could Mr. Mittle come up?

  She greeted Ernie with a smile, almost as happy as his. They kissed, and he told her she was getting dreadfully thin, and he would have to fatten her up. She touched his cheek lovingly, so moved was she by his concern.

  The white wine he carried was already chilled. She brought a corkscrew and glasses from the kitchen. They sat close together on the couch. They clinked glasses and looked into each other's eyes.

  "How do you feel, darling?" he asked anxiously.

  "Better now," she said. "You're here."

  He groaned with pleasure, kissed her poor, shriveled fingers.

  He prattled on about his computer class, his job, their vacation plans. She smiled and nodded, nodded and smiled, searching his face. And all the time…

  "Well," he said briskly, slapping one knee as if they had come to the moment of decision in an important business haggle, "have you thought about it, Zoe? Will you marry me?"

  "Ernie, are you sure…?"

  He rose and began to stalk about the dimly lighted room, carrying his wineglass.

  "I certainly am sure," he said stoutly. "Zoe, I know this is the most important decision of my life, and I've considered it very carefully. Yes, I'm sure. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. No two ways about that! I know I don't have a great deal to offer you, but still… Love-you know? And a promise to work hard at making you happy."

  "I have nothing to offer," she said faintly. "Less than nothing."

  "Don't say that," he cried.

  He sat down again at her side. He put his glass on the cocktail table. He held her bony shoulders.

  "Don't say that, darling," he said tenderly. "You have all I want. You are all I want. I just don't want to live without you. Say Yes."

  She stared at him, and through his clear, hopeful features saw again that sere, damned landscape, the gray smoke curling.

  "All right," she said in a low voice. "Yes."

  "Oh, Zoe!" he said, clasped her to him, kissed her closed eyes, her dry lips. She put her arms softly about him, felt his warmth, his aliveness.

  He moved her away.

  "When?" he demanded. "When?"

  She smiled. "Whenever you say, dear."

  "As soon as possible. The sooner the better. Listen, I've been thinking about it, planning it, and I'll tell you what I think would be best. If you don't agree, you tell me-all right? I mean, this is just my idea, and you might have some totally different idea on how we should do it, and if you do, I want you to tell me. Zoe? All right?"

  "Of course, Ernie."

  "Well, I thought a small, quiet wedding. Just a few close friends. Unless you want your parents here?"

  "Oh no."

  "And I don't want my family. Mostly because they can't afford to make the trip. Unless you want to go to Minnesota for the wedding?"

  "No, let's have it here. A few close friends."

  "Right," he said enthusiastically. "And the money we save, we can spend on the, uh, you know, honeymoon. Just a small ceremony. If you like, we could have a reception afterward at my place or here at your place. Or we could rent a room at a hotel or restaurant. What do you think?"

  "Let's keep it small and quiet," she said. "Not make a big, expensive fuss. We could have it right here."

  "Maybe we could have it catered," he said brightly. "It wouldn't cost so much. You know, just a light buffet, sandwiches maybe, and champagne. Like that."

  "I think that would be plenty," she said firmly. "Keep it short and simple."

  "Exactly," he said, laughing gleefully. "Short and simple. See? We're agreeing already! Oh Zoe, we're going to be so happy."

  He embraced her again. She gently disengaged herself to fill their wineglasses. They tinked rims in a solemn toast.

  "We've got so much to do," he said nervously. "We've got to sit down together and make out lists. You know-schedules and who to invite and the church and all. And when we should-"

  "Ernie," she said, putting a palm to his hot cheek, "do you really love me?"

  "I do!" he groaned, turning his face to kiss her palm. "I really do. More than anything or anyone in my life."

  "And I love you," Zoe Kohler said. "You're the kindest man I've ever known. The sweetest and nicest. I want to be with you always."

  "Always," he vowed. "Always together."

  She brought her face close, looked deep into his eyes.

  "Darling," she said softly, "do you remember when we talked about-uh-you know-going to bed together? Sex?"

  "Yes. I remember."

  "We agreed there had to be love and tenderness and understanding."

  "Oh yes."

  "Or it was just nothing. Like animals. We said that, Ernie- remember?"

  "Of course. That's the way I feel."

  "I know you do, dear. And I do, too. Well, if we love each other and we're going to get married, couldn't we…?"

  "Oh Zoe," he said. "Oh my darling. You mean now? Tonight?"

  "Why not?" she said. "Couldn't we? It's all right, isn't it?"

  "Of course it's all right. It's wonderful, marvelous, just great. Because we do love each other and we're going to spend the rest of our lives together."

  "You're sure?" she said. "You won't be, uh, offended?"

  "How can you think that? It'll be sweet. So sweet. It'll be right."

  "Oh yes," she breathed. "It will be right. I feel it. Don't you feel it, darling?"

  He nodded dumbly.

  "Let's go into the bedroom," she whispered. "Bring the wine. You get undressed and get into bed. I have to go into the bathroom for a few minutes, but I'll be right out."

  "Is the front door locked?" he said, his voice choked.

  "Darling," she said, kissing his lips. "My sweetheart. My lover."

  She took her purse into the bathroom. She closed and locked the door. She undressed slowly. When she was naked, she inspected herself. She had not yet begun to bleed.

  She waited a few moments, seated on the closed toilet seat. Finally she rose, opened the knife, held it in her right hand. She draped a towel across her forearm. She did not look at herself in the medicine cabinet mirror.

  She unlocked the door. She peeked out. The bedside lamp was on. Ernest Mittle was lying on his back, hands clasped behind his head. The sheet was drawn up to his waist. His torso was white, hairless, shiny.

  He turned his head to look toward her.

  "Darling," she called with a trilly laugh, "look away. I'm embarrassed."

  He smiled and rolled onto his side, away from her. She crossed the carpeted floor quickly, suddenly strong, suddenly resolute. She bent over him. The towel dropped away.

  "Oh lover," she breathed.

  The blade went into soft cheese. His body leaped frantically, but with her left hand and knee she pressed him down. The knife caught on something in his neck, but she sawed determinedly until it sliced through.

  Out it went, the blood, in a spray, a fountain, a gush. She held him down until his threshings weakened and ceased. Then he just flowed, and she tipped the torn head over the edge of the bed to let him drain onto the rug.

  She rolled him back. She pulled the sodden sheet down. She raised the knife high to complete her ritual. But her hand falte
red, halted, came slowly down. She could not do it. Still, she murmured, "There, there, there," as she headed for the bathroom.

  She tossed the bloodied knife aside. She inspected herself curiously. Only her hands, right arm, and left knee were stained and glittering.

  She showered in hot water, lathering thickly with her imported soap. She rinsed, lathered again, rinsed again. She stepped from the tub and made no effort to wash away the pink tinge on the porcelain.

  She dried thoroughly, then used her floral-scented cologne and a deodorant spray. She combed her hair quickly. She powdered neck, shoulders, armpits, the insides of her shrunken thighs.

  It took her a few moments to find the Mexican wedding dress she had bought long ago and had never worn. She pulled it over her head. The crinkled cotton slid down over her naked flesh with a whisper.

  The gown came to her blotched ankles, hung as loosely as a tent. But it was a creamy white, unblemished, as pure and virginal as the pinafores she had worn when she was Daddy's little girl and all her parents' friends had said she was "a real little lady."

  Ernest Mittle's engagement ring twisted on her skinny finger. Working carefully, so as not to cut herself, she snipped a thin strip of Band-Aid. This she wound around and around the back part of the ring.

  Then, when she worked it on, the fattened ring hung and stuck to her finger. It would never come loose.

  She went into the kitchen, opened the cabinet door. In her pharmacopeia she found a full container of sleeping pills and a few left in another. She took both jars and a bottle of vodka into the bedroom. She set them carefully on the floor alongside the bed.

  She checked the front door to make certain it was locked, bolted, and chained. Then she turned out all the lights in the apartment. Moving cautiously, she found her way back to the bedroom.

  She sat on the edge of the bed. She took four of the pills, washed them down with a swallow of vodka. She didn't want to drink too much, remembering what had happened to Maddie Kurnitz.

  Then she stripped the soaked sheet from the bed and let it fall at the foot. She got into bed alongside Ernest Mittle, wearing her oversized wedding gown and taped ring. She moved pills and vodka onto the bedside table. She took four more pills, a larger swallow of vodka.

  She waited…

  She thought it might come suddenly, blackness descending. But it did not; it took time. She gulped pills and swallowed vodka, and once she patted Ernie's cooling hip and repeated, "There, there…"

  The scene she had been seeing all night, the blasted landscape, came back, but hazed and softened. The pitted ground slowly vanished, and only the curling smoke was left, the fog, the vapor.

  But soon enough that was gone. She thought she said something aloud, but did not know what it meant. All she was conscious of was that pain had ceased.

  And for that she was thankful.

  July 26; Saturday…

  "Surveillance reported ten minutes ago," Sergeant Abner Boone said, consulting his notes.

  "Is she still there?" Thorsen said sharply.

  "Yes, sir. Got home about six-forty last night. Hasn't been out since."

  "Any phone calls?" Delaney asked.

  "One," Boone said. "About nine o'clock last night. The desk-man in the lobby, asking if Ernest Mittle could come up."

  "Mittle?" Detective Bentley said. "He's the boyfriend."

  "He didn't leave," Boone said. "He's still up there."

  "Shacking up?" Sergeant Broderick said.

  "He never did that before," Detective Johnson said.

  "Well, apparently both of them are still up there."

  "Maybe he's closer to this than we figured," Broderick said. "Maybe he's been in on it all along."

  "We'll soon find out," Boone said.

  "How do we do this?" Ivar Thorsen asked.

  "Maybe I've overplanned it," Boone said, "but rather be safe than sorry. Two cars at Lex and Third to block off her street. Precinct men for crowd control. The two guys on the wiretap will cover the basement. One man posted at each end of her hallway. Then we'll go in."

  "What if she doesn't open up?" Thomas Handry said.

  "We'll get the lobby man to use his passkeys," Boone said. "He's got them; I checked. Deputy, you, the Chief and I go in first. Uh, and Dr. Ho and Handry. Bentley, Johnson, and Broderick to follow. We got a floor plan of her apartment from the owner, and those guys will spread out fast to make sure she doesn't have a chance to dump anything. Sound okay?"

  They all looked at Delaney.

  "I don't think she'll try to run," he said, "but it won't do any harm to have a man on the roof."

  "Right," Boone said, "we'll do it." He looked at his watch. "Coming up to ten o'clock. Let's get this show on the road."

  Delaney, Dr. Patrick Ho, Sergeant Boone, and Thorsen rode in the Deputy's car.

  "Ah, will there be any shooting?" Dr. Ho asked nervously.

  "God forbid," Boone said.

  "I want this to go down quickly and quietly," the Admiral said.

  "Get her and the boyfriend out of there as soon as possible," Delaney advised. "Then you can tear the place apart."

  "You have the warrants, sergeant?" Thorsen asked.

  Boone tapped his breast pocket. "Right here, sir. She's signed, sealed, and delivered."

  Thorsen remarked on the beauty of the morning; a bare sun rising in a strong sky. He said the papers had predicted rain, but at the moment it looked like a perfect July day.

  It went with a minimum of confusion. The screening cars sealed off the block. Two uniformed officers were posted at the outer door of the apartment house. Precinct men began to set up barricades.

  The others piled into the lobby. Uniformed men went first, hands on their holstered revolvers. The lobby attendant looked up, saw them coming. He turned white. Sergeant Boone showed the warrants. The man couldn't stop nodding.

  They waited a few moments for the roof and corridor men to get in position. Then they crowded into the elevators, taking the lobby attendant along with them.

  They gathered outside her door. Boone waved the others aside, then knocked on the door with his knuckles. No response.

  He banged on the door with his fist, then put his ear to the panel.

  "Nothing," he reported. "No sounds at all." He gestured to the lobby attendant. "Open it up."

  The man's hands were shaking so hard he couldn't insert the passkeys. Boone took them from him, turned both locks. The door opened a few inches, then caught on the chain.

  "I've got a bolt-cutter in my car," Sergeant Broderick said.

  "Wait a minute," Delaney said. He turned to the attendant. "Gas or electric ranges?" he asked.

  "Gas."

  The Chief stepped close, put his face near the narrow opening, sniffed deeply.

  "Nothing," he reported and stepped aside.

  Sergeant Boone took his place.

  "Police officers," he yelled. "We've got a warrant. Open up."

  No answer.

  "They've got to be in there," Thorsen said nervously.

  "Should I get the bolt-cutter?" Broderick asked.

  Boone looked to Delaney.

  "Kick it in," the Chief said curtly.

  The sergeant stood directly in front of the door. He drew up his leg until his knee almost touched his chin. He drove his foot forward at the spot where the chain showed. Wood splintered, the chain swung free, the door slammed open.

  They rushed in, jostling each other. The searchers spread out. Thorsen, Delaney, Dr. Ho, Handry, and Boone stood in the living room, looking around.

  "Clean and neat," the Chief said, nodding.

  "Sarge!" Johnson yelled from the bedroom. "In here!"

  They went in, clustered around the bed. They stared down. The drained man with his raw throat gaping wide. The puttied woman wrapped in cloth as thin as a shroud.

  "Shit," Sergeant Boone said bitterly.

  Delaney motioned to Dr. Ho. The little man stepped close, put two fingers to the side of Zoe Kohler's
neck.

  "Ah, yes," he said gently. "She is quite, quite deceased."

  He peered closely at the empty pill bottles but did not touch them. The vodka bottle was on its side on the rug, a little clear liquid left.

  "Barbiturates?" Handry asked Dr. Ho.

  "Ah, I would say so. And the liquor. Usually a lethal combination."

  Ivar Thorsen took a deep breath, hands on his hips. Then he turned away.

  "You'll have to clean up this mess, sergeant," he said. "Do what you have to do."

  Thorsen and Delaney took the elevator down together.

  "She killed him?" the Deputy said. "Then did the Dutch?"

  "Looks like it."

  "How do you figure it?"

  "I don't," Delaney said.

  Outside, on the sidewalk, a crowd was beginning to gather. They pushed their way through. They walked slowly to the Deputy's car.

  "I'll have to call a press conference," Thorsen said, "but I could use a drink first. How about you, Edward?"

  "I'll pass."

  "I'll buy," the Deputy offered.

  "Thanks, Ivar," Edward X. Delaney said, smiling briefly. "Some other time. I think I'll go home. Monica is waiting for me."

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