The Black Door

by Collin Wilcox

  “What’d you want here?”

  I swallowed painfully. I knew I must say something. Silence would indict me—silence, and my fear.

  “Well, I was just going to talk to you about—about—” Again I swallowed, and again found myself staring helplessly at those tightening fingers. “I’ve come from Mr. Grinnel. I’ve—”

  “You said Bobby, though. You talked about Bobby. I remember.” He heaved himself up, sitting now. His face was bunched in a spasm of fear and hatred; his hands gripped the edge of the bed.

  My instinct was to run for the door. Perhaps my limbs refused to move; perhaps some deep sense of self-preservation immobilized me in the chair. Whatever the reason, I could only sit there, staring at him.

  And then, incredibly, a scene from childhood flashed before me. I was returning from a candy store with a bag of candy clutched in my hand. Three larger boys surrounded me, grabbing for the candy.

  Then, I had cried.

  Now, I could only stare.

  His mouth began to work. The muscles of his bare arms tightened. His feet seemed to grip the floor, ready to spring across the few feet separating us. I felt myself pressed back into my chair, muscles aching with a desperate, futile exertion. Incapable of speech, I could only look at him.

  Then I saw wet streaks upon his cheeks; his eyes were brimmed with tears. His body shook with a single, convulsive spasm. Gripping the bed with his murderer’s hands, still staring at me, he began to cry, silently and helplessly. His speech was an almost incoherent burbling.

  “He told you. He told Mr. Grinnel, and Mr. Grinnel told you. They know. He knows; that’s why you’re here. He’s—he’s his father, you know. And her father. And he knows. They—they—” He gasped and choked, his words tortured mumblings. “Tell him—” The next phrase was incoherent. Then: “—for them. It was for them, I did it. For him.” Now he raised his hands to his head, locking his fingers in his hair, pulling his head down, bowed before me.

  And then a lifetime’s anguish convulsed his body in a single spasm. He drew up his legs and threw himself back on the bed, burying his face in the unclean blankets. It was grief’s timeless, ultimate posture: knees drawn up, head pulled down, arms clasping his body in an agony of desperation and futility. His shoulders shook with his sobbing.

  I rose from the chair, conscious that my legs were trembling violently. I held to the chair, steadying myself. Then, slowly, I walked around the bed and across the room, making my way to the door. I was in the hallway—on the stairway. I stumbled and caught myself on the banister. I was in the lobby now, wrenching open the lobby door. In the cool night air was an indescribable sense of a surging, hysterical freedom. I was looking over my shoulder as I began running in awkward, lurching strides toward my car.

  14

  I SHIFTED IN LARSEN’S uncomfortable chair and looked at my watch: one o’clock in the morning. I sighed once, deeply, and began massaging my temples with a gentle, circular movement. I’d been waiting in the deserted office for more than an hour, and I had a headache. I took out my cigarettes, then looked at the ash tray overflowing with butts, and tossed the package impatiently on the desk.

  The door opened. Larsen came into the office, closed the door carefully behind him, and smiled at me as he sank down behind his desk.

  “Well, it’s been quite a day.” he said. “Two confessions, signed and sealed. That’s got to be a record.”

  Uncertain how to answer, I simply smiled in return.

  “Have you talked to Grinnel?” Larsen asked.

  I shook my head.

  “It’s probably just as well. He’s not at all happy with your candidate.”

  “I didn’t think he would be. What about Reusch?”

  “He’s in the county hospital.”

  “Did he retract his confession?”

  Larsen nodded.

  “Did he say why he confessed?”

  “Not in so many words. But they very seldom do.”

  “Is he insane?”

  The Captain thought about it. “Well, he’s certainly not normal,” he said finally, “but I don’t think he’s completely balmy, either.”

  “But why would he confess to a crime he didn’t commit?”

  “I think that it was tied up with suicide, somehow. Like hari-kari, almost—you welcome death, if it serves a noble cause, whether it makes sense or not. And Reusch was obsessed with the thought that his sole mission in life was to stop Grinnel, at whatever the cost.”

  “But if he wasn’t even connected with the murder, then—” I couldn’t phrase the thought.

  “He’d read everything he could on Roberta’s murder,” Larsen said, “because he was so preoccupied with Grinnel. When he was questioned by the F.B.I. in connection with the letters he’d written, I think he decided to confess to the murder as a kind of a—a last gesture. I’m not clear on it in my own mind, and certainly Reusch isn’t either. But I get the feeling that he would willingly have gone to the gas chamber, just for the chance to stand up in court and denounce Grinnel as a Fascist.”

  “Dan Kanter was right, then,” I said, half to myself.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Kanter thought Reusch was a loony, and that his confession was meaningless. He thought the F.B.I. was making a mistake.”

  Larsen smiled. “The F.B.I.,” he said dryly, “never makes a mistake. And, besides, I don’t agree with Kanter. If I’d’ve been in Swanson’s shoes, I’d’ve done exactly the same thing. Reusch is a very intelligent guy. He’s a little nutty, of course, but he’s plenty smart, too. It’s a common pattern, as you know. He told a consistent, plausible story. He’d given a lot of thought to the story, and he stuck to it. Any cop would’ve been out of his mind to discount that confession.”

  “How did Reusch take it when he heard Ferguson was also in custody?”

  “I told him about it myself. He didn’t admit a thing until he’d heard all the details. My impression is that he decided it sounded pretty good, from his point of view. That is, he seemed to like the idea that one of Grinnel’s trusted followers had murdered the girl. So he just shrugged and said he’d withdraw his confession. Then he just turned away and didn’t say another word.”

  “What did Ferguson actually say? Did his story make sense?”

  “It made enough sense,” Larsen answered laconically.

  “What actually happened?”

  “Well, apparently it all started because Bobby was bugged at big sister’s sleeping around, and he started to moan to Ferguson about it. Bobby didn’t have any idea it would come to anything, of course. He was just ranting, the way all good F.F.F. members are supposed to rant, about their image, and how something like a chippy for a daughter could foul up the great man’s mission in life. Ferguson, of course, took it seriously and apparently decided to do something about it on his own. Obviously, he’s pretty screwed up. For my money, he’s as nutty as Reusch, especially when he’s on the sauce. And that’s what happened, of course: it was the sauce that did it, apparently.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, Ferguson decided, without telling Junior, that he’d fix matters on his own. All he’d have to do, he figured, was throw a little scare into Pastor. Apparently it was Roberta’s affair with Pastor that got to Bobby, probably because he could imagine a public scandal, or maybe because he just didn’t like his sister, and her affair with Pastor seemed like a good, solid rap. Anyhow, on the night of the murder, Ferguson got drunk and decided it was time to throw his little scare into Pastor. So Ferguson went to The Quiet Place to settle down and do a little more drinking and wait until Pastor got off work. Ferguson planned to follow him, I guess, and wait for a nice dark alley. Then, of course, Roberta showed up. That confused Ferguson, but by that time he was so far gone he decided it would be better to scare both of them, instead of just one. So he followed them to Pastor’s place. Apparently Pastor made the mistake of being brave, and—” Larsen shrugged—“and that was it. Ferguson killed him w
ith a judo chop. Or, rather, a series of judo chops. If I had to guess, I’d say Ferguson was abnormally stimulated both by the liquor and also by seeing Pastor and the girl in bed together. It’s an explosive combination, you know: liquor and sexual stimulation. The old adrenals start pumping. It’s incredible.”

  “You’re satisfied he didn’t use a weapon, then—just his hands?”

  Larsen nodded. “That’s where we missed the boat: we figured it was a blackjack or something. Still, it wasn’t far off. The edge of the hand can be pretty lethal, especially when it belongs to someone like Ferguson.”

  “What about the girl? Did she attack him?”

  “That part’s a little vague: I’m sure it’s vague in Ferguson’s mind, too. The way I figure it, she fought him, and that was that.”

  “How’d he get away so cleanly, though?”

  Larsen shrugged. “In a way, Ferguson is a trained killer. We’ll get his army record, of course, and it’ll probably tell us a little more about that. But, as nearly as I can tell, he just walked out of the apartment the way he came in, through the unlocked front door. He got in his car and drove home to sleep it off. He didn’t feel any real remorse, either, as nearly as I can tell. He thought, in his crazy way, that he’d relieved Grinnel of a terrible burden. As I say, it’s my opinion that Ferguson is a nut. Certainly his ideas of right and wrong are a little confused, to say the least. And his idea of reality, too. In the two weeks since the crime, he’s gotten himself completely convinced that Pastor was some kind of a sinister agent in the employ of the Communists, and that Pastor’s sole purpose in life was to undermine the F.F.F., starting with Grinnel’s daughter. That’s the point at which we started to make progress with his confession, incidentally. We played up to Ferguson’s idea that Pastor was a Communist, and it paid off. He started to sing and sing. His version, of course, is that Pastor attacked him, and he merely acted as any good F.F.F. member would act, defending himself against the Communist conspiracy. And, of course, there could be a germ of truth in it. If Pastor actually attacked Ferguson, we probably couldn’t get Ferguson for more than manslaughter.”

  “What about the girl, though? How’d he account for killing her?”

  “At first he said that Pastor attacked her, too, and he Ferguson—was protecting her. Something like that, it was pretty confused. But, in any case, it’s clear that Ferguson has simply blocked out the girl’s murder from his mind. I honestly don’t think he knows what happened; consciously, at least. From what you told us, though, it’s pretty plain that he’s partly aware of it, but it’s buried pretty deep down.”

  “What about Bobby? Did he know that Ferguson had done it, or did he just suspect?”

  “Almost certainly, he didn’t know, not for certain. He couldn’t have known. The crime was unpremeditated, and there was no communication between the two after the crime was committed. However, it’s pretty plain that Bobby suspected Ferguson might have done it. And, at the same time, Bobby realized his own complicity, however unwitting or innocent. But there’s no question of his moral guilt. Without his goading, Ferguson would never have been in The Quiet Place, let alone in Pastor’s apartment.”

  Larsen shrugged, and for a moment his eyes revealed the policeman’s constant, haunted kinship with human depravity. “Bobby just happened to spout off to the wrong person at the wrong time. And his sister happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But—” Larsen spread his hands. “But there’s one thing I’ve discovered in this business: there’s an inevitability to something like murder. The victim lives his life, asking for it. And so does the murderer. And eventually they collide. It might not be the original victim and the original murderer, but—” Again, the detective spread his hands, seemingly almost embarrassed.

  I leaned forward and slowly snubbed out my cigarette.

  “Is there anything else you want me to do?” I asked.

  “No. Actually, I didn’t mean for you to stay this long. I just thought you’d be interested. And, after all—” he sighed, but he said it—“after all, we owe you a lot, Drake. I mean it. I’m a believer. If I knew how you do it, I’d take lessons.”

  I smiled and rose to my feet. “If I knew how I did it, Captain, I’d gladly give you lessons.”

  He lightly clapped me on the shoulder as I walked to the door.

  “You know,” he said mildly, “that was a pretty stupid thing you did, wandering into Ferguson’s place like that. You could very easily have been victim number three.”

  “I know. Believe me, I know.”

  He opened the door, and we shook hands.

  “Thanks again, Drake. “And—” he smiled—“and good luck collecting the rest of your fee. I have a feeling you’ll need it.”

  “I have a feeling you may be right. I’ll let you know.”

  “Do that. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  I went down the hallway of the Detective Bureau, and past the sleepy desk sergeant. He nodded to me, and I returned his nod. As I walked across the large public reception room, a cleaning woman was mopping the stained marble floor. I pushed open the outside door and stood for a moment staring down the broad steps of downtown police headquarters. Then I looked up at the sky. The fog had come in, cold and gray, shrouding the city’s lights.

  Slowly, I began descending the steps. I was thinking of my brother, Christopher, and of my younger sister, Kathy. I remembered a fight I’d once had with Chris. He’d been ten and I’d been eight. When my father heard about the fight, he took us both out in the back yard. Quietly, he asked us why we’d fought. Strangely, neither of us could quite remember. My father had listened, and nodded, satisfied. Then the three of us had walked down to the corner for ice-cream cones—double dips. It had been just a half hour before dinner. My mother had been angry at Dad for spoiling our dinner, and my sister had plaintively demanded her ice-cream cone. The three of us—my father, my brother, and I—had looked at each other and shrugged and smiled as my father gave Kathy a nickel and my mother a hug.

  I got in my car and drove toward home. I felt tired and depressed, and suddenly very lonely.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Stephen Drake Mysteries

  1

  I PROPPED MY FEET on the coffee table and idly gazed out on my own private vista, that portion of the San Francisco night visible through an oversize plate glass window dominating one wall of my living room. On the first of each month I was sometimes acutely aware of the price I paid for the view, yet I never really regretted the extravagance. On a clear night, from the east slope of Telegraph Hill, any price seemed worthwhile.

  It was eight twenty. She was twenty minutes late.

  Perhaps, after all, she wouldn’t come. It had happened before: an anonymous phone call, arranging a fictitious appointment.

  If she didn’t come by nine, I decided, I’d go to a movie. It was Friday night, after all. And even though I had nothing specially planned, it seemed a shame to—

  The doorbell sounded, sharp and startling. Hastily I rose to my feet, crossed to the door and softly swung open the cover of the wide-angle scanner. I saw an oddly assorted couple standing in the dim light. The woman was middle-aged, plainly dressed, dumpy and dowdy. At her side stood a small, misshapen man whose head barely reached his companion’s shoulder. If the woman’s clothes were nondescript, the man’s clothes were almost flamboyantly stylish. As I opened the door I was wondering whether dwarfs habitually dressed in bold patterns, perhaps as a gesture of defiance.

  The woman was the first to speak.

  “Mr. Drake? Mr. Stephen Drake?” Her voice was low and quiet.

  “Yes.” I stepped back, gesturing for them to enter. “You’re … ?”

  Not replying, she walked into the room, followed by the misshapen man. Watching her, it seemed as if her manner had something of the European peasant’s stolid, suspicious self-sufficiency. Her face, too, had the flat planes and olive hue of the southern European.

  After a
brief, calm scrutiny of my living room, she turned to face me. Her eyes were dark; her gaze was speculative and calculating as she said, “My name is Mrs. Aidia Vennezio.” She paused, as if expecting some special reaction. She was watching me closely.

  A little disconcerted by her opaquely appraising eyes, I bobbed my head in greeting.

  “How do you do?” I replied, feeling faintly foolish. “Won’t you sit down?” I gestured to a nearby sofa.

  “Thank you.” She nodded politely, and moved to the sofa. As she did, she also nodded to the dwarf and moved her head toward the door. Without a word the small man crossed the room and let himself out.

  Surprised, I chose an armchair facing her.

  Where had the dwarf gone? Would he be back? Irrelevantly, perhaps, I tried to remember whether I’d left the door on the latch.

  I watched my guest settling herself on the sofa. She sat precisely in the center, with both hands holding her bulky black leather purse on her lap. She wore a coat made of heavy blue cloth. Her dress was a darker blue; her shoes were serviceable black. Her graying hair was pulled back in a bun. She seemed to be in her late forties or early fifties, and somehow she reminded me of a cleaning woman who’d worked hard, saved every penny and now sat with her life’s savings stuffed into her black leather handbag.

  Yet there was something more to Mrs. Vennezio—something strangely inflexible and inscrutable.

  And there was the dwarf, dismissed with a small, practiced nod.

  I cleared my throat. “Would you like something to drink, Mrs. Vennezio? Coffee?”

  She shook her head. Then, without preamble, she said abruptly, “You’re Mr. Drake the clairvoyant, aren’t you?”

  I sighed, then nodded. The question always disconcerted me, no matter how it was put. I always had the feeling that most people thought of clairvoyant as synonymous with charlatan. Or faker. Or worse.

  “I read about you.” She seemed to expect a reply, but I could think of none. Then, in the small silence that followed, she seemed to come to a decision. Her mouth tightened and her chin came up. Her voice hinted at a quiet defiance as she said: