He missed at first. But he caught hold of the killer's gun wrist in the next moment. With his left hand, in silence. A flash went upward. A hand was at his throat, choking. He could not feel his right arm. He butted with his head and broke that grip. They struggled over the floor. He felt fist blows rain against his face. He held that gun wrist, he struck with his head again, in silence.
He was strong, this dumb faced man, with his round eyes dim in the darkness for the moment, six inches from Kerry's own. Two hundred pounds of him, and full of murder, fighting now for his own life. Kerry had his thumb jammed beneath the gun hammer, but he could not hold that wrist. His sprawling feet stumbled. The hammer of the gun almost tore his thumbnail off as it was ripped from him. The killer was out of contact with him again.
In the silent blackness. Perhaps it was filled with oaths of gibbering, he wouldn't know. Shoeless, he had leaped aside, in silence. The killer had no more shots to waste. He was waiting to locate the target now. Kerry felt a piece of wood, a leg or rung of the shattered chair, he thought, touching his foot. He rolled it lightly, leaping aside.
Sound! In the world of silence where he lived there was no sound. He did not know what it was to have it or to miss it. But to men who lived in a world of sound, there is a dreadfulness about a silent struggle in a black place, and their nerves may be betrayed by a small rolling sound. Kerry did not hear it, but the killer did. His gun blazed at it. In panic again.
The last shot in that gun, he knew. And the killer knew that he knew. Kerry felt the floor thud with the rush of feet. Rushing for the unseen door.
He reached it first. He stood backed to it. He took a silent breath.
'You won't get out!' he said in his clear and careful voice. 'I'm going to murder you right now! You asked for it.'
It was the first word that he had uttered. The first sound, except for the rolling of that chair rung, which he had made. But he had got his breath now, and that murderous gun was empty.
Whether the dumb faced man answered him he did not know. Nor what terrors were in that man's mind, over the struggle in the black silence, and now the word of death. Kerry felt the sawhorse standing on the pile of planks beside the door. He planted his right foot against a leg of it, and ripped at it to pull it apart with his left hand. The two-by-four leg came off, a two foot length, with nails at the end of it. Perhaps the ripping wood had cried and the pulled nails had screamed—he wouldn't know. But the killer knew—though perhaps not from what those sounds had come. Let him guess.
He himself was a killer now. In the darkness he advanced.
His eyes were swimming, swimming, through the darkness . . .
Suddenly, half across the room from him, the window shade was ripped from its roller. Against the dark dirty window glass he saw the silhouette of the killer then. He rushed. There was a rope hanging beyond the window. But the pane was filled with the killer's bulk and was sharding outward in a burst of glass within the instant. The killer had gone through.
He had gone at last through the dark and dingy window of that room across the alley, the only way out for him that there had been, as perhaps he had known from the beginning. The only way out at all. And he had found it now, going through the window.
Kerry Ott was two strides behind him as he went bursting out, with the glass splintering. Just for an instant Tuxedo Johnny seemed to be floating motionless in space, with his hands reaching for the rope. Just for an instant the sharding glass was motionless around him—a flat piece of it, a foot in diameter, with ragged edges, sitting horizontal in air beside his throat. Then he had caught the rope, and one of his legs was twisted in the slack of it, and the flying shards of glass went on, to drop below. Beyond the window that he had gone through at last, Tuxedo Johnny Blythe looked at the play maker with his bewildered eyes, like the eyes of a nine-months-old infant examining a feather. Baffled by the mystery and strangeness of it. By the mystery and strangeness of life and death.
Kerry had not seen that flat sheet of glass strike him, or him strike it. There are things much too quick to see. Quick as the stroke of a razor, it had gone across his throat, and on.
He looked at Kerry Ott with his bewildered eyes for an instant, and then his mouth opened, in what was perhaps a scream, or might have been no sound at all. The blood was coming from his throat. He put up his hands, and fell backward, with his leg caught in the bight of the rope. He had always been horrified by his own blood so. But he could not hold it in with both hands now.
For what seemed a long moment he hung head downward. Then the rope whirled and straightened, and he was gone. Kerry Ott shoved his feet into his shoes, and put his shirt around him.
He left his flat, and went down to the street. The grey false dawn at the end of the summer night was beginning to lighten in the east. The air was cold and thin.
Some men had gathered back in the alleyway already. More were going down. There had been those shots; a gun being emptied in the old tenement. There had been, perhaps, yells, and oaths which Kerry had not heard, and just as well. A milk wagon and two or three taxis had stopped beside the curb, at the alley's mouth. A patrolman was going down it at a run. Soon there would be dozens, and perhaps hundreds. But the man who had been frightened that the gnome janitor might see him, and had been paralysed with terror when Slipsky had seen him, did not care how many might see him now. He had gone through the window at last. He had found the way out, as he had known that he must do from the beginning.
A taxicab drew up in front of the Royal Arms as Kerry reached the alley's mouth. Big Bat O'Brien got out of it. He caught sight of Kerry and came towards him, his steps deliberate.
'I was thinking about what you said about going back to the fingerprints,' he said a little gravely, with his external meaningless smile gone from his face. 'None on the phone, when I knew that he had used it. But I just couldn't imagine that even Johnny could be quite dumb enough to tell me, practically out loud, what he was trying so hard to hide.'
'I wonder if he was so dumb,' said Kerry, 'if most of us would have played it any better, or even half so well. Being caught red handed, trying to escape, by the blue arm of the law and still trying to bull it through. At least I'd hate to have to try, myself, to do it any better. You would have come to the fingerprints sooner or later yourself, Inspector. A man can't think of everything. Even having no prints at all can be a betraying thing.'
'Collodion, I suppose,' Big Bat said. 'There was a spot on his chin, where he had given himself a little cut. Maybe it was that that made him think of doing it. Started him off on thoughts of blood. Maybe he didn't play it so bad, when he got started.'
'He played it well,' said Kerry. 'It was just the play that was terrible.'
'So it had to come to this for Johnny, did it?' said Big Bat gravely, a little heavily, as they went down the alley.
He pushed his hat on the back of his head. He clasped his hands behind his back. His emerald eyes were dull, full of the shadow of many remembered things.
'I had just made my first grade the hard way when he was taken on as a lieutenant,' he said. 'He didn't know much, but he was always a nice guy. I remember the day when he married Sue McCue, a big fine healthy wholesome girl, Dan's daughter, and it looked like his world was made. The big wedding at St Christopher's, and the mayor and all were there.
'It's too bad that the days of our youth and joy can't go on forever, isn't it, Kerry? But perhaps we'd get tired of them if they did, too.'
JEFFREY WALLMANN
Now You See Her
Jeffrey Wallmann is not exactly a household name. But he is one of the many authors who has helped to provide the backbone for two of the longest running mystery digests produced—Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine (which finally folded in 1985, alas, after nearly thirty years) and Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine (started in 1956; still going strong).
Wallmann has never been a prolific writer of mystery fiction but in the early 1970s he published over 30 stories, around half of them in
collaboration with the indefatigable Bill Pronzini. One of the latter, 'Day of the Moon', was expanded into a novel and published in the UK in 1983 under the joint pseudonym 'William Jeffrey' by Robert Hale: an excellent and fast paced pulp thriller, inexplicably it never found an American publisher.
Woilman's short stories are well worth seeking out. There was a short ¬lived series about a PI called Sam Culp, but the remainder take a look at crimes from an unusual angle and go out of their way to close with a neat little twist. And you don't usually see the twist coming. But then neither does the victim in the story. And the victim is not always the dead man.
Jeff Wallmann has two Impossible Crimes to his credit. The later one, the intriguingly titled 'The Half Invisible Man' contained a neat locked room gimmick that he and Bill Pronzini dreamed up (and one wonders how they came to concoct it; but then the untold sagas behind the triggering off of half the most ingenious Impossible ideas would probably fill a book in itself—and a fascinating book at that). The other story appeared a year or so earlier and perfectly illustrates that the Impossible Crime can (indeed must) move with the times and doesn't have to depend on a snowbound mansion or an eccentric detective or a technical explanation you'd need a degree in quantum physics to understand.
Wallmann is clearly a man who, rather sinisterly, sees immense criminous possibilities in normal, everyday objects and, I think you '11 have to agree, uses them to murderous effect.
ROBERT ADEY
Mrs. Ibsen backed away from the window. 'He's still in there,' she said, with a shudder, letting the drapes fall into place. Detective second grade Hal Devlin stood at the window next to her and continued to peer at the window in the apartment house across from them. He was a big man, with a barrel chest and thick arms and legs. He had black crewcut hair and brown eyes and a nose which had been mashed to his face by a baseball bat when he had been a patrolman.
'I can see the reflection of his binoculars,' he said.
His partner for the week, Detective third grade Worth, stubbed his cigarette out in a nearby ashtray. He wasn't much of a contrast to Devlin, for he had brown eyes and black hair as well. But somehow people kept taking him to be the senior partner, which always rankled Devlin a bit. He eyed Mrs. Ibsen and said, 'And you say you have no idea who the person is?'
'None,' Mrs. Ibsen replied. 'I don't even know all the tenants in this building, much besides those in South Tower. You know how it is—so many people together, privacy is sacred. All I can tell you is that I saw him spying on us two days ago, and he's never stopped. I don't even think he sleeps, just sits in that window and watches.
'I would have reported him sooner, but I wanted to make sure before I accused one of the tenants of being a Peeping Tom.'
She sat down in a chair heavily, a middle aged widow about twenty pounds overweight, with dyed silver hair rolled into a bun and bland, round features. She was wearing a sleeveless spring dress, and the meat under her arms swayed as she talked, for she gestured with her hands in quick, jerky motions.
'You understand, don't you?' she continued. 'The Acreage is supposedly a model community, with security guards and screening of applicants and very high rent. I wanted to be positive.'
Devlin understood. The Acreage was less than a year old, one of those planned oases of respectability in the middle of an urban wasteland called a city.
He fingered the fine material of the drapes and recalled his first impression of sterile good taste when he had entered her apartment fifteen minutes before. He was pretty sure all the apartments in The Acreage were exactly like hers, right down to the furniture arrangement.
A person moving into The Acreage forsook his individuality, his identity, his memories, for there was nothing in one's past worth salvaging. The past was a jumble of clash, of worry and strain. Here, life was ordered and safe. One belonged, like cubes in an ice tray.
Devlin was glad that his family and he still lived in that white elephant of a house. He liked having a past.
Worth turned to Devlin. 'I'll talk to the super.'
'Do that,' Devlin replied. He let the drapes fall. 'And get a pass key from him, too.'
'Right.' Worth paused to light one of his chain link cigarettes, then left. Devlin smiled at Mrs. Ibsen, trying to reassure her that she had done the proper thing by reporting the man, and then he said, 'About this other matter. You want us to investigate it?'
'I don't know,' Mrs. Ibsen said, frowning slightly. 'I—'
A bell sounded from the kitchen. Mrs. Ibsen rose from the chair. 'Excuse me. My pie is done. We can talk in the kitchen.'
Devlin followed her into the small kitchen which was at the rear of the eighteen-by-twenty-four living room. The other end of the living room was all glass and drapes and was where the woman and he had been standing moments earlier. Next to the kitchen were a small hall, the entrance foyer, and another hall leading to the two bedrooms and the bath.
Mrs. Ibsen opened the oven door and removed a steaming pie. 'All I can tell you is that Lenore Grimond seems to have disappeared.'
'Disappeared,' Devlin echoed. He watched as she placed the pie carefully on the counter, using the empty frozen pie box as a pad.
The rest of the kitchen looked as though it was unused. The stainless steel sink was spotless, the counters shone, and the pseudo walnut cabinets and trim were as though waxed and buffed. Even the inside of the warm oven gleamed, and Devlin realized it was a selfcleaning model.
'Yes. Lenore is probably my oldest and dearest friend. We've known each other long before we moved here. In fact, it was my doing that her husband and she came to The Acreage. They live in seven-twelve, which makes it very convenient. Anyway, I was supposed to meet Lenore for lunch on Monday at the beauty shop she manages. She wasn't there and none of the girls had seen her since closing on Saturday. Here it is Wednesday, and I haven't heard from her.'
'You spoke to her husband?'
'Yesterday. I don't get along too well with Peter Grimond. Few people do. He's a CPA and uses his apartment as an office, so he's home all day but gets very upset if he's interrupted. Last night I went up there to see Lenore or find out what had happened, and he said the strangest thing. He said that she had left him.'
'Many women leave their husbands, Mrs. Ibsen.'
'Not women our age, officer. Not that we don't consider it, but after being with one man for so long, there just isn't any place to go. We might make the man leave, get a divorce and settlement, but not walk out. And Lenore wasn't the type. She was quiet and patient, a plodder. When she got angry it was over something important, and she wasn't the least bit flighty or emotional. She was everybody's friend.'
'What do you think has happened to her, then?'
'I couldn't begin to guess. I know that there wasn't another man in her life, though I think Peter plays around a bit. But then that's to be expected of a man, I suppose.'
Devlin wouldn't know about that. Rose had always been enough of a woman for him. 'Did she leave any kind of word at her salon?'
'No, none. I called there this morning, and when I found out that she hadn't left any instructions for its management, I really began to get worried. That salon is very important to her, and I can't believe she would leave without some kind of plans for its continuation.'
She shook her head. 'I can't accept the idea that Lenore just up and left.'
'I'll speak to her husband, Mrs. Ibsen,' Devlin said. 'Perhaps he's heard from her by now, and everything is all right.'
Worth returned then, and Devlin thanked Mrs. Ibsen and left.
'The super's not the cooperative kind,' Worth said as they walked down the hall to the elevator. 'Practically had to drag him outside to see which apartment I meant. Then he called the owners before he'd part with a pass key.'
'Who's the Tom?' Devlin asked.
'Young man named Osgood, in apartment seven-forty-seven. The funny thing is that the super swears Osgood left for work this morning, said he saw him drive away in his sports car.'
There were three other apartment houses to The Acreage, the others like south tower, at each corner of the property, ell shaped, and ten floors high. The centre court building was in the middle, also ten floors high, but square in shape. The ground floors of the buildings were open and paved for parking, with the lobbies at the end where the cars could drive in.
The Acreage was stone wall enclosed, with only four entrances, one near each of the tower buildings, and the grounds were well gardened grass, shade trees, flower beds, paths and wooden slat benches. It was a complete world unto itself, and to Devlin, an alien one.
They waited a moment before the door to 747, listening. They couldn't hear anything inside the apartment, so Devlin unholstered his .38 Special and Worth slid the key into the lock. He jiggled the key until the tumblers fell silently, and then nodded. Devlin shouldered the door.
The blond haired man at the window spun around in his chair, a pair of binoculars in his hands 'Wha—'
'Freeze,' Devlin ordered. 'Police.'
The man froze, still in a half crouch. Devlin crossed to him and motioned him to place his hands against the wall, then step back until his weight was fully on them. Then Devlin frisked him, pulling out the contents of his pockets as he went. The man was clean. Devlin let him stand and then show identification. He proved to be a Mr. Oscar Dortmund, 112B Yancy Street, married, five-eleven, 185 pounds, blond hair and blue eyes. He also proved to be a licensed private detective for A-Acme Investigators, Inc.
'What are you doing here,' Devlin asked.
'Stakeout.'
'Does Osgood know you're using his apartment?' Worth asked, lighting another cigarette.
'Of course,' Dortmund said. 'We're not stupid. We're paying him twenty bucks a day for its use, plus whatever food we eat.'
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