“You mean you haven’t found him yet. But why are you still looking for him?”
“And you,” said Eustace. “Both of you know too much about what I’ve done. That’s why I killed Nan this morning. And that’s why I killed your wife this afternoon. I came into the hallway of your apartment house and saw the door open. I crept inside and threw a knife into her back from a distance of six feet. It was a perfect shot–she didn’t make a sound.”
I hated him. His small figure made a great swinging shadow that whirled and danced in ellipses and circles as I revolved around it. I had to crane my head to see him, high on his tiny catwalk, and this accentuated my dizziness and made the pit of my stomach reel.
“Why didn’t you kill me then?” I asked.
“I wanted to talk to you. I knew you would find me again, and I wanted you, of all people, to know my plan. And then you could tell me where Jacob is.”
“Yes,” I said. “I can tell you that. But first you must answer some questions for me. Do you agree?”
He bobbed his head in assent. I had an idea. It was dangerous, but that did not matter. If it did not work, I would die anyway – only, perhaps, a little sooner. “One thing I want to know,” I asked, “is how you managed to get Nan Bulkely to help you with your plan?”
“I gave her presents at first. Then I promised her the lead in ‘Nevada!’ – although she did not know I planned to keep that promise by killing Raye – and a Central Park apartment. Until Raye was murdered she thought the things I was doing were all parts of a complicated practical joke I wanted to play on a friend. After that she was afraid to do other than what I told her for she knew I would kill her.”
I was right when I guessed that Nan had been as much a prisoner as myself, and that she had been acting against her own will. “Another thing I want to know,” I said, “is why you had Nan get you percherons to tie to the lamppost when you committed a crime?”
Eustace threw back his head and cackled. This time his laughter was higher and shriller than before, an especially grisly sound to hear. “I like percherons,” he said. “They’re my trademark. My way of setting a seal on my work — they’re so big and powerful, just the opposite of me.”
“Were you the one who called Nan last night?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “That was after I had Nan rent another percheron. I told her I wanted it for you and that I would telephone her and tell her where to have it delivered. But when I phoned she told me she was through. Then I knew I had to kill her. I trailed Jacob and her to the Village, waited until they left the nightclub and the park and were walking a deserted street.
Then I shot her and went to get the percheron which I had had delivered in a truck a block or so away.”
“Why didn’t you kill Jacob then?” I asked.
“I planned to, but just as I was taking aim I heard somebody open a window in the house behind me. I might have had a witness if I had shot again. So I beat it and threw away the gun. If I had used knives it might have been different. I’m good with knives, and knives are even quieter than a silenced gun. I learned to throw them at the carnival. See?” And as he spoke, his figure lunged and a long hunting knife buried itself in the wood of the turntable inches from my head. I knew then that I had only seconds to wait. I clambered to my knees, clutching desperately for handholds on the smooth wood as the machine whirled faster and faster.
“One more question, Eustace,” I cried up at him. “What did you do with me after you tried to kill me here in this place last spring and what did you do with Tony’s body after the taxi accident.”
“I put a fake Social Security Card in your pocket after frisking your identification,” he said, “and hired a couple of friends of mine – good boys who work around here – to dump you along the Bowery. I thought you were dead at the time or I wouldn’t have let you go. As for Tony, he died in Nan’s apartment after the taxi accident. We put your clothes on him and threw him in the river. It was the safest place for him.”
He was silent. I could see that he was leaning far over the guard railing, peering down at me, his hand on the lever. The turntable was going so rapidly now that I knew I could not hold on much longer. I saw him raise his small hand, saw the gleam of a disproportionately large knife in it…
“You told me that you would tell me where Jacob is now. I’ve got to find him. As long as he lives I shall not be free. This morning, if I had had this, I would have killed him. Now, quickly, tell me where he is!”
I stood up dizzily, balancing precariously on the very center of the turntable. I knew I made a better target like that and also that I would soon be thrown off. But if this came off I would have to be as dramatic as I could…
“Right behind you, Pruney!” I cried. “Look, Jacob is right there behind you!”
It worked. I don’t know whether it was the old taunt, the sound of the ancient ridicule that startled him, or whether he so ardently desired to see Jacob that he did not think. But he tried to face about instantly and, delicately balanced on the guardrail as he was, he wrenched his hand free from the controls, swayed sickeningly and fell off the catwalk. He gave one whistling cry before he struck the floor thirty feet below. He must have died instantly. Unhappily, in death his stunted body and absurdly wrinkled face looked as much a caricature of human features as they had in life.
But I was not pitying Eustace then. I maintained my balance for one moment more, time enough to see Lieutenant Anderson and one of his men detach themselves from the darkness of a balcony and come clattering down a stairway to the ground floor – and to realize that they had been part of the greater shadow long enough to have heard every word of Eustace’s confession.
Then I just let go and swung off into space.
More from John Franklin Bardin
The Devil Take the Blue-Tail Fly
John Franklin Bardin’s most acclaimed work plays a virtuoso performance on music and madness in this unforgettable thriller.
In 1946 New York, Ellen, a world-renowned musician, is suffering from the effects of her latest mental breakdown. Amongst other challenges, a chance meeting with a folk singer from her past causes her psychological well-being to rapidly deteriorate. Over the following terrifying weeks, Ellen finds herself becoming both a criminal and a victim as she attempts to contend with the darkness within.
“We have all had these feelings, more or less, and now and then. The healthier among us try to step back from the brink, try to laugh at what might have happened if we had gone a bit further. The reader of these tales will read in horror—those who can take it. And they will not forget very soon.” —Patricia Highsmith
The Last of Philip Banter
The 1947 cult classic now available for the first time in eBook edition.
Philip Banter is a little too fond of drink, and his marriage isn’t what it should be. He’s also troubled by a penchant for forgetting. That doesn’t mean he’s losing his mind.
Then Philip finds a manuscript entitled “Confession” in his office. He reads about a surprise dinner party his wife held, of the conversation that took place, and —to his horror—of his own infidelity. But the “confession” turns out to be a prophecy, accurate in almost every detail.
Is he the victim of a conspiracy to drive him mad, or did he type the manuscript himself? As the “confession” grows lengthier and more destructive, can he find the willpower to resist its terrifying inevitability?
Connect with Diversion Books
Connect with us for information on new titles and authors from Diversion Books, free excerpts, special promotions, contests, and more:
@DiversionBooks
www.Facebook.com/DiversionBooks
Diversion Books eNewsletter
www.scribd.com/DiversionBooks
The Deadly Percheron Page 19