Crime is Murder

by Nielsen, Helen

  It was better with the light off again; the darkness seemed a lot friendlier somehow. And now a wide window emerged from the blackness of the opposite wall, an open window with long lace curtains that stirred faintly in the night wind. Larry crossed the room and peered down at the splashes of yellow light on the street below. No sign of anyone watching. No pedestrian traffic at all. The wheels of a swift-moving bicycle whispered on the cobblestones, and somewhere a taxi purred off into the darkness, but otherwise the street was as empty as a lonely man’s heart. Then the chimes in the bell tower broke loose again, and it was midnight. Twelve o’clock and the night was over. Twelve o’clock and the beginning of the last day. … It is the last day, Larry. Twenty-four hours and she’ll be gone. Just twenty-four hours and you’ll never see her again, if you’re lucky enough to have those twenty-four hours. Then, if you’re real lucky and everything goes well, you can take in the guided tours. You can see the castles and the cathedrals and the museums, and send post cards to the boys back at Prairie State. You can even buy a few souvenirs to remind you of your visit in the kingdom of fairy tales.

  … Fairy tales. The words caught in a groove of Larry’s mind and began to play back over and over again like a phrase of a broken record. What did it mean? The princess in the fairy tale … the pursuit of culture? Just two more things he didn’t understand and probably never would. Right from the beginning he’d been in the dark, bewildered and scared. Maybe that was the big trouble. Right from the beginning he’d been running, even before there was anything to run from, and a running man can’t think straight. If he runs long enough, he can’t think at all.

  But a man sitting alone in the midnight darkness can think. Twenty-four hours. It wasn’t much time to set straight the small world of Larry Willis, but if he started at the beginning and unpacked his mind as carefully as he’d packed that cowhide bag a few days ago, piece by piece, item by item, he could at least be sure that everything was in its proper place and nothing had been overlooked. It wouldn’t change anything, but it would help pass the hours until dawn.

  … And so it was Wednesday night in that old-fashioned dining room downstairs. It was two nights ago, just a couple of hours after the man at passport control had smiled and said, “Welcome to Copenhagen, Herre Willis.”

  Say that it started with the fat man. It wasn’t the whole truth, but the whole truth never has a starting place. It goes back days, and years, and even generations, without ever settling anything at all. So ignore the rough crossing on that airborne roller coaster, and forget about the upset nervous system and the disappointment of not being booked in at the Palace, where the convention was being held, and begin with the bald-headed fat man who sat at the table just across the aisle eating sardines from a can. He was terribly methodical about it. First a thick slab of bread from the well-stocked plate at his elbow, then a generous spread of rich yellow butter, and finally the little silver sardines laid on with tender care and loving kindness. Between mouthfuls, he downed quick swallows of a liquid fire called akvavit followed by about half a glass of beer for a chaser. After six sardine sandwiches, four schnapps, and two bottles of beer, he concluded the preliminaries and ordered dinner. But at no time did he forget to keep a watchful eye on the American.

  Larry felt miserable. The eyes of the fat man were as warm and friendly as the eyes of the little sardines, and it was tough enough to be alone this first night in a strange land without being turned into a free exhibit for the natives. Maybe his face was dirty, or maybe he’d cut himself shaving in that antiquated bathroom upstairs. He squirmed about until his own image appeared in the paneled mirror on the opposite wall of the dining room, but all he could see was the unscarred and uninspired face of Larry Orin Willis. It wasn’t the most handsome face in the world, a little too thin, a little too taut about the mouth and eyes, and much too pale under that close-cropped stubble of sand-colored hair; but it certainly wasn’t odd enough to inspire all that undisguised fascination. A little of that could do a lot to a man with a set of frazzled nerves, and it was quite a relief to have the waiter come along with the check and block off the view.

  “I guess you don’t get many Americans at this hotel,” Larry Suggested. It was good just to hear his own voice again.

  The waiter, who wasn’t suffering from malnutrition either, presented the check with averted eyes as if this unpleasant duty violated his sense of hospitality.

  “Every hotel,” he sighed, “has Americans.”

  “That big fellow across the aisle isn’t American.”

  “No, sir, he is not.”

  “Is he a guest here?”

  “I can’t say, sir. I’ve never seen him before.”

  Larry didn’t know why the fat man disturbed him so much. It wasn’t as if he were carrying secret documents to a foreign power. He’d only come to Copenhagen to attend a manufacturer’s convention—no small assignment for the youngest junior executive in the history of Prairie State (founded 1847) but nothing, surely, to Cause alarm because a fat man with a huge appetite had a curiosity to match. Fatso probably wasn’t thinking of him anyway. He might have his mind on some Viking beauty beyond the pillars, or even on the musicians over in the alcove near the terrace. Larry couldn’t see the musicians from where he sat, but a violin and a piano were working over a medley of fast waltzes, and a few minutes ago a troubadour in a shabby suit and an apache cap had strolled through the dining room making love to the Seine in borrowed French. It was all as picturesque as hell, and Larry, who didn’t realize it yet, was just as lonely.

  The waiter seemed to recognize the trouble. “Your first time in copenhagen?” he asked.

  “My first time out of the States,” Larry confessed.

  “You will have a fine time here. There is much to see. Much to do.”

  Larry counted out the kroner with melancholy eyes. Much to do. On Monday, yes. On Monday the convention opened. On Monday he could take his brief case, present his credentials, and start living it up with a lot of other fellows in the farm-equipment field, but this wasn’t Monday. This was Wednesday night, nine twenty-seven by his wrist watch, and almost exactly three hours since he’d started learning how it feels to be a foreigner.

  “You haven’t had a real vacation in five years, boy. Take an early Plane. See the sights. Enjoy yourself.”

  That was H.J. talking. That was the day he’d been called into the front office to hear the news. Maybe the convention wasn’t quite the same as a cabinet appointment, but it wasn’t bad for a country boy using nothing but the old boot-strap technique. It was something like a promotion, a bonus, and a vacation with pay rolled into one, and it was so unexpected that for a moment he’d wanted to run straight to Cathy with the news because something so big had to be shared with someone…. But he couldn’t run to Cathy because Cathy wasn’t his girl any more. It was five years since she’d given up waiting for a tycoon in the making and married that curly-haired plumber who didn’t have the time of day.

  Cathy again! The hand Larry wiped across his face was meant to wipe an image from his mind. Five years with hardly a thought of her, and now, just because a routine was broken and for a couple of days there’d been nothing to do but listen to the propellers spinning out old dreams, she was back gnawing at his mind like an unpaid bill!

  But she wasn’t going to get away with it. By this time the waiter was gone with the kroner, but his suggestion lingered on. Larry stood up, all six, lanky feet of him, and started across the dining room to the place marked garderobe where he’d left his coat. In a city as large as Copenhagen there must be a lot of places where a stranger could make friends and lose memories … but one friend he could do without. He paused at the fat man’s table and leaned down close so old fish-eye could get a good look for his trouble.

  “I hate to break this up,” Larry said, “but I have to go now.” Then he went on, feeling a little foolish about the whole thing. The fat man had merely removed the fork from his mouth long enough to display a wide,
gold-capped smile.

  “Farvel,” he said, and looked about as sinister as an overaged cherub.

  That’s the way it started—the fat man, the aggravated nerves, and A quiet little hotel that sent Larry prowling the dark streets in search of something to drive away those first-night-away-from-home jitters. A Copenhagen night could be cool even in August. Larry left the hotel with the collar of his trench coat turned up around his ears and the belt hanging loose so that the split tails flapped in the wind. He felt a little self-conscious about the trench coat—like something out of a foreign intrigue film—but at least he’d resisted the beret. It was still locked inside that cowhide bag up in his room. Once outside the hotel, he turned left because that was what Viggo had told him to do.

  “I speak American. My friends say, ‘Why don’t you speak English?’ but I speak American. Anything you want to know just ask me, Viggo. I give you the dope. O.K.?”

  That was Viggo, about fourteen years old and four and a half feet high including The little round bellboy’s cap on the top of his head. One casual question as to where a man might lose an evening, and Viggo had all the answers complete with guidebooks and street maps.

  “You like music … dancing … drinking? Tivoli is but a few blocks away. Here, I show you.”

  What Larry really wanted was a nice, noisy American bar where he could rub shoulders with a few fellow exiles and swap talk on the businesses they were lucky enough to have left behind; but he’d have to make tracks to find it. Somebody must have sold H.J. cut-rate reservations because—in spite of the waiter’s insistence on American infiltration—this cozy hostelry seemed strictly for the natives. The abbreviated lobby was already deserted, and the only bar on the premises was a quaint little affair on that terrace off the dining room where everybody drank beer and conversed in a tongue that sounded something like an auctioneer with laryngitis. Whatever Viggo was talking about must be an improvement, and so Larry took the guidebook and the map and made a left turn outside the hotel.

  For the first few blocks the street was almost dark and almost empty. He walked slowly, watching for street names he couldn’t pronounce and place names he couldn’t understand. Turn right at the Radhuspladsen, Viggo had said, and so Larry, who didn’t know a Radhuspladsen from a safety island, watched for everything. He watched for the fast-moving bicycles and the slow-moving autos. He watched for the straggling pedestrians brushing past him on the narrow sidewalk, and looked into the windows of the little shops, remembering souvenirs he’d have to buy and cards he’d have to send. Would it be too obvious to send a card to Cathy? Something casual, perhaps, “Greetings from Copenhagen.” Just a reminder of what she’d missed by marrying that Plumber. Or maybe something brusque and businesslike, “Had to rush off to Copenhagen by plane. Please ask Charlie to fix that leak in my front lawn sprinkler.”

  There she was moving in on him again. Larry left the shop and tried to become engrossed in the front page of a newspaper displayed in the lighted window of a publishing house. It wasn’t easy. The paper was Danish, and all he could make of it was the photo of a moon-faced man in a high-collared uniform with a slavic sounding name in the caption. Russian, probably. Some high-ranking officer who’d just been executed, or likely would be after they got through hailing him as a hero of the Republic. When Larry remembered how close he was to the iron curtain at that moment, he walked on a little faster. In that way he reached the square just in time….

  Suddenly the street wasn’t dark and empty any more. Suddenly it plunged into a wide square that was bisected by a busy boulevard and ringed with light. Now the city was alive, neon-lighted and alive with happy twosomes hurrying off to the gay places where Larry expected to lose those butterflies in his stomach. Sprinkled across one side of the square were the little stands where tourists bought open-faced sandwiches and natives bought hot dogs, and on the other side, beyond the boulevard and behind a huge fountain, rose the shadowy hulk of a great red-brick building with a tall bell tower. Viggo’s directions came to mind, and Larry unfolded his street map. As he did so, the chimes in the tower began to toll off another hour. Ten o’clock and all was well with those who didn’t walk alone.

  There must have been some kind of magic in the chimes that made Larry forget the Map. It was a happy sound, and this was a happy night, or should have been. This was a part of what he’d been working for most of his thirty-odd years, so that one night he could stand on a bright corner of a gay foreign city and tell himself what a successful man he was and what a wonderful time he was having … tell himself over and over again so he wouldn’t wonder at the emptiness and waste time composing post cards to someone who no longer cared.

  Cathy, darling,

  I miss you. I’ve had to come all this distance to realize how much I miss you, and that’s a strange thing because I’ve missed you all these lonely years….

  For a few moments all of the happy twosomes vanished and the square and the streets were as empty as lost time. The night wind rustled the map in Larry’s hand so that it fluttered and flew back against the face of someone passing by. He muttered an apology, wondering what another human was doing on this lifeless planet, and the sound of his voice was a kind of signal to bring back the people and the lights. Gradually they returned—the sandwich buyers in the square, the twosomes strolling arm in arm, and finally, because he was so conspicuously out of step with the passing scene, the man who came running toward him out of one of the bright streets threading off to Larry’s left.

  At the instant Larry saw him, he felt a peculiar kinship for the running man. He would have liked to run, too, and not because the city was hostile, but because there were no devices in it. No telephones to be answered. No appointments to be kept. But the man who came darting and dodging his way along the narrow sidewalk wasn’t running from himself. He was a stocky, muscular-looking fellow with some kind of cap on his head and some kind of wings on his heels. Once, about a dozen yards off, he broke stride long enough to glance back over his shoulder at the street behind him, and then came on with a fresh burst of speed that threatened to bowl over any obstacle in his path. Larry tried to step out of the way, but even then he seemed to know that it was useless. Some things had to happen. Some things were as inevitable as those bells still working away on the hour of ten.

  When it did happen, there was no resisting the viselike grip on his arm that jerked Larry about like a puppet on a string. And it was no accident. The man had come straight for him as if he’d recognized a friend just this side of hell.

  “McDonald!” he cried.

  But it wasn’t McDonald. It was a tall, sandy-haired American wearing a new trench coat and a startled expression; but it wasn’t McDonald. The man drew back, looking as if he’d just been slapped, and that’s when Larry got a good look at him. The cap was navy blue with a little gold anchor in braid just above the leather visor. Beneath the cap was a square, sun-browned face, and below the face was a heavy knit sweater and a pair of faded denim pants. All of these things he saw in a moment, because a moment was all he had. The sun-browned face turned away, searching the night in a wild, hopeless manner, and then the man dropped to one knee so suddenly that Larry didn’t realize what was happening until he came up again and pressed the folded map into his hands.

  “Thanks,” Larry said. “I didn’t even know that I’d dropped it—” But by this time he was talking to himself. The running man was running again, already lost to sight in the semidarkness of the street Larry had just taken from his hotel, and the small black sedan was just turning the corner fast on his heels … the very small black sedan with its headlights burning dimly in the European manner, and its driver, an incredibly ugly man wearing a soft black hat, crouched over the steering wheel like a malevolent giant.

  Of course it hadn’t really happened. That’s what Larry tried to tell himself when it was all over and his blood had started flowing again. To be more accurate, it had happened but not at all the way it seemed. A man could run withou
t being in fear of his life. He could be late for an appointment. He could be trying to catch a streetcar.

  One of the narrow streetcars rattled across the intersection at the far side of the square, and Larry told himself another story. What was so remarkable about a case of mistaken identity? It happened to somebody every day. And what was so terrible about a black sedan turning that particular corner at that particular moment? The streets were for public use, weren’t they? As for the evil-visaged driver, he’d been fooled once before tonight by a sinister face that broke into a broad smile when it was spoken to.

  Larry Willis, you’re an idiot. A fat man stares at you in a hotel dining room, an ugly man in a black sedan chases a frightened sailor through the streets, and a girl you’ve all but forgotten follows you about like a migratory ghost. And why? Because you’re exhausted. Because you’ve bounced around in the sky for thousands of miles, too excited to sleep, and now you’re out on the town trying to cure an ailment that needs nothing more than a long session in that cozy feather bed back at the hotel.

  It was easy to make a sale to a customer who wanted to be sold. Logically and persuasively, Larry explained away everything he’d just witnessed and then shoved the map into his coat pocket and turned back toward the hotel. He had four whole days to play tourist. The bright lights could wait…. One block … two blocks. This time no dawdling before the shop windows and no staring at the front page of a newspaper he couldn’t read. This time just a fast return trip to a little hotel that must be along here somewhere. He vaguely remembered the small canopy over the entrance and the bright red mailbox that was fastened to the wall next to the door. But he didn’t remember all that excitement in the middle of the street….