Myriad of Corridors

by Stan Mason

  ‘If you know the name of the killer why don’t you call the police?’ demanded the architect in annoyance. He had had enough of people pretending to know something about the killer when it was quite clear they failed to do so.

  ‘I would except that my situation doesn’t allow me to do that,’ came the reply. ‘It’s very difficult position to be in. I can’t say more than that.’

  ‘Okay,’ retorted Hunter irately wondering whether or not to hang up. ‘What do you know about the man?’

  ‘I work with him... in a bank... a major bank,’ revealed the caller frankly. ‘But that’s all I’m going to tell you over the telephone.’

  ‘You know I’ve got a photograph of the killer,’ declared the architect blandly. ‘It was published in all the newspapers. If you’re trying to pull the wool over my eyes pretending to know him when you don’t...’

  ‘I do know him,’ insisted the man, interrupting the flow of conversation. ‘I told you, I work with him. It’s the same face as that in the newspapers... the same man.’

  ‘But you won’t tell me his name.’ Hunter was almost on the point of desperation to learn the killer’s identity.

  ‘Let’s meet outside the Hippodrome at the corner of Leicester Square at, say, eight o’clock tonight.’

  ‘Very well,’ consented the architect tiredly. ‘How will I recognise you?’

  ‘I’m well built with black hair and I’ll be holding a copy of The Daily Telegraph in my hand.’

  ‘Right... what do I call you? What’s your name?’

  There was a moment of silence as the man obviously tried to think of a pseudonym. ‘I’m known as James,’ he said slowly which clearly wasn’t true.

  ‘All right, James, I’ll see you there at eight o’clock,’ concurred Hunter wondering whether this was yet another waste of time. The call ended abruptly and the architect turned to his wife.

  ‘I hope this isn’t another crank call,’ he told her sombrely. ‘The man says he knows the killer. Apparently, he works with him in a major bank but he won’t give me his name over the telephone. There’s probably a story to tell.’

  ‘He sounds genuine,’ said Ellen with interest. ‘I know you’ve been flooded with crank calls but he wants to meet with you. That sounds genuine enough to me.’

  ‘I asked him why he hadn’t telephoned the police with this vital information. He said the situation was difficult.’

  ‘Maybe he’s been taking funds from the bank without permission and doesn’t want anyone to find out about it,’ she suggested blindly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ muttered Hunter thoughtfully. ‘Anyway, he wants to meet me this evening.’

  The day passed by but, as far as the architect was concerned, it had been ruined by the call. Try as he might, he could not get the thought of it out of his mind. The man had sounded genuine but so did most of the crank callers. They were all certain they knew information which would help him in the investigation only to be proved that they could have saved themselves the price of the call. Yet this man was prepared to meet him to discuss the matter. He had to be genuine! That evening, Hunter went to the West End of London to stand outside the Hippodrome. No one was waiting there holding a copy of The Daily Telegraph and he looked at his watch at ten past eight wondering whether the caller was simply playing a prank on him. He wandered to and fro for another five minutes before deciding to leave when a bluff man in a dark raincoat, holding a copy of the newspaper, came faltering towards him. At last, thought Hunter, he finally turned up. James managed to reach him and, as he did, he fell forward in a heap on the pavement. The architect stared at the body dimly for a moment noticing a large sticking firmly out of the man’s back. Hunter bent over to feel James’s pulse but there was no beat at all... James was well and truly dead.

  The architect screwed up his face in anguish. He had got so far and now, at the last fence, it was all fading away. He looked up as a crowd of people began to descend on the body to suddenly notice someone he recognised instantly. It was the face of the killer staring at him only twenty yards away. Hunter stood up straight and yelled at the murderer who took flight immediately. The architect chased him long and hard through the back streets of London’s West End in an attempt to catch him but the killer was too fast and too elusive. In due course, the architect began to weaken and there was no alternative but to give up the chase. He felt very aggrieved to have come so close and yet not achieve a positive result. It was obvious that the killer had got wind of the fact that James was about to spill the beans. Hunter had no idea what had gone on between the men, or why James had declined to telephone the police. The reasons would probably remain a mystery for eternity. All that he had was that the killer worked in a major bank. Which bank? There were four major banks operating in London... each one with almost a thousand branches. The task of finding the killer was practically impossible.

  ***

  When Hunter arrived home later that evening his mood was one of total despair. He entered the apartment throwing his arms in the air in frustration, unable to sit still in an armchair as his adrenalin raged through his body. Despite all her attempts to settle him, not even his wife could calm him down.

  ‘You won’t believe this,’ he related angrily, ‘but that mad killer actually knifed the man who called me in the back in front of my eyes and there was nothing I could do about it. Nothing! He killed him outright. Worse still, I saw his face about twenty yards away and chased him for the best part of a mile before he got away. I almost had him in my hands!’

  ‘Calm down!’ she told him, handing him a dry martini in the hope that it would help him relax and he would put the incident to the back of his mind.

  ‘I was so close,’ he ranted irately. ‘So close. If only I could have got my hands on him... if only!’

  ‘Well you didn’t,’ she reproached gently, ‘so there’s no point in you rambling over the details like a dog with an old bone for the rest of the evening. You’ll only upset yourself.’

  He shook his head slowly as though he was responsible for not catching the killer. ‘I don’t know how he had the nerve to knife that man in front of me.’

  ‘You already told me he was a psychopath,’ she cut in.

  ‘But why did he kill him?’ bleated Hunter. ‘It was so unnecessary!

  ‘You don’t know what went on between them,’ uttered Ellen, still intent on calming him down. ‘They worked together, probably had lunch together, maybe spent evenings together. You don’t know. But James must have intimated that he was going to tell you the killer’s identity. It’s as plain as daylight. How else would he know he was going to meet you.’

  Her comments seemed to bring him back to reality and he sipped his drink slowly although he was still unable to take his mind off the incident. It had been horrible to be confronted with a man with a knife sticking out of his back ... someone who had practically died in his arms. Hunter knew who had killed him before he had a chance to speak. Consequently, he still didn’t know the name of the killer. A thought screamed through his mind which tended to make him shudder. It would be necessary to face Roger Watson again to advise him of the events of the evening. He had an idea how the senior police officer would view the situation from his failure to report the meeting with James in advance. Come what may, he was going to have to bear the brunt of the policeman’s temper the following day. Nonetheless, he entered the police station intrepidly the following morning.

  ‘I’ve a confession to make,’ he admitted freely after being shown into an interview room.

  Watson sat facing him across the table sombrely. ‘Go on,’ he pressed pursing his lips.

  ‘I was outside the Hippodrome in Leicester Square last evening. That’s where a man was knife to death.’ He was surprised how easily the words slipped from his lips.

  ‘And how does that affect this police station?’ as
ked Watson beginning to think the visit of the architect was yet another waste of police time.

  ‘I went there to meet him,’ came the reply. ‘He told me his name was James but I think he made it up. He telephoned me earlier in the day to say he knew the name of the killer. Apparently he worked with him in a major bank in London.’

  The senior police officer blew out his cheeks. ‘Phew!’ he managed to say. ‘Did he say which bank?’

  ‘No he didn’t. He refused to give me any other information over the telephone. He said he would meet me at the Hippodrome and give me all the guff then.’

  ‘Did you get the chance to speak with him?’

  ‘No... the killer stabbed him to death just as he arrived there,’ explained Hunter miserably. ‘We didn’t get a chance to speak. But he did tell me over the telephone that the killer worked in a bank. That conforms with what Sophie Taffler said about him wearing a smart suit, a white shirt and a tie.’’

  ‘There are hundreds of banks in the London area,’ groaned the policeman. ‘We can’t start searching all of them on the hunch that the man works in one of them! Did he say anything else on the telephone?’

  ‘Nothing of any importance but I saw him,’ claimed Hunter readily. ‘I saw him after he knifed James. I ran after him, chasing him through the back streets but he was too good for me. After about a mile I lost him.’

  ‘You should have told me about the meeting with this man James,’ scolded the policeman sharply. ‘We might have been able to save the man’s life.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ countered the architect. ‘The killer’s more slippery than you imagine. He must have known that James was going to meet me. How... I don’t know. He followed him to Leicester Square and killed him right before my eyes.’ He paused to reflect for a moment. ‘Hold on! We may be able to track the bank from the identity of the dead man.’

  Watson pulled a face as a frown appeared on his forehead. ‘That’s just it, Hunter. There was no identity on the dead man’s body. Unless someone else reports him as a missing person, or a bank comes forward in the near future to say that one of their staff is missing, we have no means of finding out. In my opinion, the man lived on his own. He was a loner.’

  ‘I also asked him why he hadn’t contacted you with the information. His excuse was that he couldn’t because there would be some difficulty.’

  ‘He probably stole some of the funds from the bank where he worked and disappeared. That’s why he couldn’t phone us.’

  The architect looked puzzled for a moment. ‘But surely the bank would have reported the theft.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ stated the senior police officer. ‘Banks don’t like to admit they’ve been taken for a ride. They hide it under the carpet. No... I don’t see any way we can find out the name of the bank or the killer.’

  Hunter stamped his foot on the floor in annoyance. He had been so near and yet so far. When would the torment end? ‘I’m sorry I never contacted you,’ he apologised profusely.

  ‘Not to worry,’ returned Watson amiably. ‘No harm’s been done this time. We’ll get the man in the end only it might take a little longer than we thought it would. You’re always welcome here with information on the case, provided it’s not from those blessed mediums.’

  The comment forced a smile from Hunter’s lips. It was the first time he felt like chuckling in the past twelve hours. Ellen was right. He needed to calm down. The killer would have loved to have known how he agonised over the case. Hunter had to stop himself from worrying about every little detail. If the killer wanted to murder people with a large knife that was his problem not that of the architect. The responsibility had to lie with the killer.

  He left the police station and went to his house where he sat in the study staring at the mass of information attached to the wall. It was becoming very full. In fact he could hardly see the wall any more. Names, places, details, observations, and the photographs were all affixed there, linked together with a series of broad lines made by a black marker. Yes it was all there... with the exception of the identity and location of the man and woman he sought. But, as Watson had told him, ‘we’ll get the man in the end only it might take a little longer than we thought it would!’

  ***

  Some days earlier, the killer had promised that he wouldn’t telephone Hunter any more but, as a result of the incident the previous evening, he quickly reneged on the promise. An hour after Hunter had left the police station, his mobile telephone rang and the architect found himself talking directly to the killer again.

  ‘You were that close to me last night,’ claimed the man, laughing loudly at the other end of the line, ‘but you couldn’t catch me, could you? I suggest you go to a fitness club and get yourself into shape.’

  The architect glanced at his watch. It was twelve thirty and he recognised that the killer was ringing him during his lunch break from the bank. ‘I’m getting closer to you,’ he told him calmly. ‘But my advice is that you choose your friends much more carefully or they’ll give you away in the end.’

  ‘I don’t think I need to worry about friends,’ came the reply.

  ‘James was about to reveal your identity,’ stated Hunter. ‘You obviously knew that.’

  The killer laughed loudly. ‘Is that what he said his name was? Well he was lying to you. It’s definitely not James.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to tell me his real name.’ The architect bit his lip for blowing his chance of wheedling the real name of the man who called himself James. It would be a very important link in the investigation.

  ‘Come on, Mr. Hunter,’ challenged the killer. ‘You wouldn’t expect me to, would you? Our conversation’s far more sophisticated than that. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘Yes, you’re right,’ returned the architect slowly. ‘But he did tell me you worked in a major bank. Now which one is it?’

  There was a long pause at the other end of the line as the revelation sank in to the killer’s mind. ‘Is that what he said?’ came the response although it was clear that the question was hollow.

  ‘Oh, I know you work for a major bank,’ repeated the architect boldly, feeling he was beginning to get the edge on the conversation.

  ‘Well you can think what you like. I mean the man who wanted to speak to you stole money from the bank and disappeared. I think he wanted to get some more out of you with a bum story.’

  ‘Is that why you stabbed him in the back?’ The accusation was direct but Hunter did not expect the reply that was fired at him.

  ‘Oh, Mr. Hunter! How can you say that? I strangle women for a reason. I don’t stab people to death at random. It wasn’t me who killed him.’

  ‘But I saw you at the scene,’ remarked the architect with an element of surprise in his voice.

  ‘Of course,’ he rambled on. ‘I went to see him meet you. I wanted to know what he said. You see, I’m the invisible man. I can come and go wherever I like... whenever I like... without anyone knowing I was there.’

  ‘If you didn’t stab him, who did?’ The mystery was growing stronger every moment.

  ‘Do you really want to know?’

  ‘If it wasn’t you, who was it?’ Hunter was hesitant wondering whether the man was still taunting him but he came clean very swiftly.

  ‘It was actually my sister,’ admitted the caller. ‘She was there with me although I don’t think you saw her. You see, Mr. Hunter, your mind is focussed too narrowly on the case, just like the police. That’s why you haven’t caught me.’

  Hunter simmered on his end of the line at the comments of the killer. The man was confident and arrogant, not believing that anyone would be able to find out his identity or catch him.

  ‘So why have you phoned me?’ he demanded coming to the end of his tether. Tolerance was not the architect’s best feature and he felt that he was being
held to ransom on the telephone.

  ‘I simply rang to taunt you,’ came the honest reply. ‘I want to hang you out to dry because, despite my warnings, you won’t get off my case. You’ve witnessed my sister killing a man. She may do the same to you if you don’t give up your quest. Now you know I found out about the man who wanted to meet you, and you may be surprised at what else I know. For example, you got married recently.’

  Hunter froze at the comment. How could the killer know about his marriage unless he was watching him? Not only did the architect now have Ruth’s spirit to contend with but also the killer who was watching him as well. What was it all coming to?

  ‘I was watching the wedding from a short distance away... near the marquee.’ The caller chortled at the other end of the line.

  The architect began to lose his temper much to the delight of the killer. ‘If I catch you anywhere near my wife or my home you’d better watch out. I’m warning you!’

  ‘But Mr. Hunter,’ laughed the caller casually. ‘You can’t catch me. I told you I’m the invisible man. And I don’t take likely to threats, especially from an architect.’

  ‘I really don’t think we’ve anything more to say to each other,’ Hunter told him irately. ‘Don’t ever call me again.’

  ‘Why not?’ laughed the killer. ‘It’s one of the things that I enjoy so much in life... taunting you.’

  ‘Really!’ snapped the architect angrily. ‘Well let me tell you something. Your days are numbered. The police and myself are closing the net on you all the time.’

  The caller was heard to give a long laugh. ‘The police,’ he chuckled. ‘Do me a favour. Look, if you ever got close to me I’d escape by jumping on a plane or a boat to find myself a place abroad. You see, that’s why you’ll never catch me.’

  The telephone went dead and Hunter shook his head as he replaced it in his pocket. Indeed, the man was extremely arrogant and clever. It was going to be difficult to arrest him unless something unusual happened. Meredith, the reporter, had remarked that the killer would be caught through the mistakes he made. Well this one failed to make any which made it extremely difficult to end the saga.