City of the Dead

by Herbert Lieberman

  The elevator that Haggard rode up in, after having to strike a match and search out the apartment number on the ’mailboxes, once a handsome thing of brass and mahogany, was now in ruins. A shambles. Into every square inch of its wood, kids have gouged their initials, along with a rich intaglio of obscenities and pictoglyphs of sexual organs. Most of its brass has been stripped for resale at local junk shops, and the small space reeks of urine.

  “I’m looking for your boy,” Haggard says, stooping as he enters and removing his hat.

  “Hah?”

  “Your boy—Janos. Janos—do you know where he is?”

  “Hah?”

  “Janos,” he cries at her over the noise of a small television, volume turned up to maximum, where a game-show master of ceremonies bounces and careens about like a buffoon.

  The tiny, wizened figure hobbles on a cane to a rocking chair and with a great effort sits. While Haggard’s eyes tunnel through the shadows of the place a fat old calico cat rubs up against the detective’s leg and purrs.

  “Police?”

  “That’s right.” Haggard nods.

  “I no see Janos for long time,” the little widow lady says, her head shaking with a mild palsy.

  “For how long?”

  “Hah?”

  “Would you mind turning that TV down a bit?”

  “Hah?”

  “I say, how long since you’ve seen him?” the detective bawls at her ear.

  “Oh, mebbe two year. He run from the prison. You find him?”

  “No—I’m trying to.”

  “Hah?”

  “I say, I’m trying to find him. He never calls you? Writes? Nothing?”

  “Writes?”

  “Yes. Letter? Postcard? Anything?”

  “No, no.” The old lady shakes her head, smiling sorrowfully. “He no write. Call. Nothing. He no good, Janos. Other brothers, sisters. All good. Work hard. Janos stupid. No good. Always trouble. School. Girls. Police. Always trouble. He in trouble now?”

  As the old lady cranes her neck and squints at him, there is something strangely reptilian about her, something prehistoric, elemental; a lizard slowly switching its tail in a Pre-Cambrian twilight. Her toothless jaws move endlessly, gumming nothing.

  “I don’t know,” Haggard ’says, his eyes swiveling all about the room. “He may be in a lot of trouble.”

  “Hah?”

  “Lot of trouble,” the detective bawls. “Lot of trouble.”

  “Yah, yah.” The old lady nods. “Lot of trouble.”

  “You haven’t seen him?”

  “No—I no see him mebbe two, three year.”

  “Now it’s three years?”

  “Hah?”

  “Nothing.” Haggard smiles. “Never mind. Okay if I look around?”

  “Look around?” The 9M lady, head shaking unceasingly, gapes up at him.

  “Yeah—look. Look around the place.”

  “Look?”

  “Yeah. Look.” Haggard gestures toward the shadowy rear of the apartment.

  “Sure. Sure. Look. Look.” She waves abruptly, as if dismissing him.

  The detective turns, leaving the gnomish little creature to the game show with its oafish noises and its gray flickering images of idiocy.

  Toward the back of the apartment there is a little bathroom, vile and pestilential, with a lot of sodden pinkish-gray old lady’s underthings hanging on a dryer in the tub. Then a kitchen, the floor of which is strewn with saucers of milk and pet food, and liberally scored with cat stools in varying degrees of desiccation.

  Farther back is the bedroom. This is a large, shadowy place furnished with heavy, garishly carved oak pieces. There is a big unmade bed with an immense headboard of carved scrollwork. Above that hangs a crucifix. In the corner stands a huge, clumsy chifforobe propped up with books where one of its legs is missing. Beside that is a cheval glass, its mirror cracked. There is one window in the room, curtainless and with a shade hanging askew.

  Above all this hovers the smell of old age, that mixture of camphor and medicaments that Haggard associates somehow with approaching death. From somewhere far below in the street comes the squeal and shriek of children playing, then a burst of rapid-fire Spanish hailing down upon them from a window above.

  The detective’s eyes sweep quickly through the place. Then in the next moment he crosses to the closet and yanks open the door.

  Nothing there but old-lady clothes—black dresses, a couple of hatboxes, a flannel robe, a tatty fur-collared coat with the little, beady fox heads still intact. Nothing there. Nothing out of the ordinary, he feels, starting to turn. But then, there on the floor, along with several pairs of old lady’s black shoes, each pair indistinguishable from all the rest, is a pair of men’s shoes. They too are black, rather formal, and not old. Not the shoes, for instance, of a dead husband, or a married son long gone from the house. No, these are quite new, and with the stubbed toe and greatly elevated heel so modish among the young.

  Haggard stoops slowly and lifts the shoes out of the closet, standing there a while and studying them in the shadows. Then, in the next moment, taking the shoes, he strides back out into the living room where the old lady, seated in her rocker and hunched over her cane, watches the game show. The master of ceremonies is now embracing some screaming, mildly hysterical housewife who’s apparently just won a garbage-disposal unit.

  “Whose shoes?” He holds them out before her.

  “Hah?”

  “Whose shoes?” He gestures elaborately at them.

  “Hah?” The old lady gapes up at him blankly, her jaws moving unceasingly. But for a fraction of a second he is certain he has seen cognition register in the sharp little gimlet eyes, and something like fear as well.

  In the next moment, smiling, he leans down as if about to speak directly into her ear. But he doesn’t. Instead, with the shoes tucked under his arm, he claps his hands briskly beside her ear. One sharp resounding crack. Instantly, her eyes widen, flutter, and she winces.

  Still smiling, Haggard places the shoes gently on her lap, straightens up and waves at her. “Okay, Mama—you win.”

  »43«

  Old dresses. Old blouses. Old jeans, patched and faded. Tartan kilts. Slacks. Skirts. Suits—a navy, a plaid. The gown of silk organza with the faint fragrance of orange blossoms still clinging to it. An old terry bathrobe, buttons missing. On the door a shoe bag. Pumps and sandals. Loafers. Saddle shoes. A pair of clumsy cork-soled brogans purchased on a trip to Scotland. She used to rake leaves in them in the fall. Sneakers on the floor. Moccasins. A pair of absurd, floppy purple powder-puff slippers.

  9:20 P.M. KONIG’S HOME.

  Paul Konig stands inside the closet in his daughter’s bedroom, sorting through her things. It is a large walk-in closet, full of good, familiar odors. The orange blossoms, of course, but also that unmistakable mixture of soap and cologne that used to permeate her hair, the slightly animal smell of youthful exuberance; these are still in the closet, clinging to the dusty, mote-filled shadows that hover there above the racks of garments.

  Konig removes the terry robe with the patches and the missing buttons, folds it carefully and packs it into a large cardboard carton, along with a lot of Lolly’s other old things. He’ll buy her a new robe this weekend, he tells himself. Take a trip down to Saks or Lord & Taylor’s. She’s had that old robe since high school. She’ll need a new one. And all those shoes in the bag are shot now. All badly scuffed and some are out of style. Hardly worth repairing. She’ll need new ones. What about some of these new things the girls are wearing now? Damned pretty, he laughs. Much more stylish than in my time.

  He takes the shoe bag down from the door and starts to carefully pack all of Lolly’s old shoes in a separate carton. He whistles softly to himself as he works, feeling a curious exhilaration, totally inexplicable in the light of the events of that day. Still, he feels good. Relieved about the Strang business, and, oddly enough, optimistic about Lolly. Yes, Lolly was going to be all
right He had no reason to make such an assumption but he knew that, down deep inside. He knew it with as great a certainty as it was possible to know anything.

  These people would no? harm his daughter. They wouldn’t be that stupid. Oh, they would threaten to all right. Taunt him and demand a large sum of money, which he would give them if he had to. But they wouldn’t hurt Lolly. She was, after all, the daughter of a fairly influential man. The Chief Medical Examiner of New York City, with powerful connections and very close links to the NYPD. It would be a little foolhardy to invoke the wrath of that kind of man. They might rip him off for a goodly sum, but they wouldn’t be stupid enough to hurt his child. The police would never close the books on a case like that. Yes, he would pay them the money and they would give him back his daughter. Fairly straightforward business. Almost routine in this lunatic day and age. The police might even recover some of the money, but he didn’t care particularly about that Yes, he was certain—very soon now his little girl would be coming home to him.

  He whistles as he pulls out three or four pairs of old jeans in execrable condition. What in God’s name do kids see in these old rags? Christ. Make a religion out of them, they do. Buy ’em already torn and filthy. He laughs and chucks them onto a pile of other old things in a corner, destined to be tossed out with the morning trash.

  Still, as he works, whistling, spirits lifted as they had not been for weeks, months, something gnaws at him. Some queasy unease; a faint sense of constriction in the chest. He is waiting for the phone to ring. He has been waiting for it to ring ever since he got home that evening. Not consciously waiting, for he doesn’t even know that his ears are cocked, and every nerve of his body coiled, waiting to spring at the sound of a bell. For several hours, in fact, he has been waiting to hear that voice—what did Carver call it, “Lovely—soft-spoken—said he’d call you at home tonight.”

  Still, that is not what he’s been thinking about. He’s been thinking only of her. What it will be like having her home. How he will try to make things up to her. They might take a trip. Now that it was spring and the weather beautiful, they might go off somewhere together. Ideal time for Europe or why not even the-Orient? Both Lolly and Ida had always wanted to see the Orient. But he’d always pooh-poohed it. There was always a conference he had to go to in England, France, or Germany. So they’d always wind up going there. More civilized anyway, he’d tell them. Less chance of disease. Orient’s a filthy place. Can’t stand the food, and besides, the weather’s beastly. So, in the end, they’d do it his way. Always his way. God—what a selfish, insufferable bastard. Well, things would be different now.

  Suddenly he wheels, staring down hard at the floor. “What was that?” he murmurs half aloud to himself, thinking he’s heard a phone ringing. But it isn’t. At least not in his house. Possibly across the way at the Cruikshanks’.

  He goes back to the cartons once again and the old clothing, working in a desultory way now. Soon, he feels a little tired. That Strang thing—nasty business. Ugly, unpleasant. But glad it’s done with. Should’ve been done years ago. Cleared the air. Never liked Strang. Competent enough pathologist. But sloppy. No passion. Really doesn’t care. Just intent on rising. Next-step-up sort of thing. That’s the whole game with him. All this young breed—just winning—no real passion. Relieved now it’s over. Although he knows that as far as Strang’s concerned, it’s only just begun. Won’t take it lying down. Probably on the phone right now with his bigshot City Hall pals. But even that won’t help. Mayor might very well have my head Friday, but Strang will never be my replacement. Strang will not be ME of New York City. Not over my dead body, he won’t. “Now what in hell do you s’pose she wants with these?” he mutters, pulling out a pair of bright, filmy culottes, shaking his head and holding them up to the light. “Good Christ.” He laughs. “There’s a side of her I never knew.” And suddenly the phone is ringing. Not in his head this time, but somewhere in the house. So intently has he been awaiting that sound that hearing it now, at last, he doubts its actuality. Or at least he doesn’t understand it. Instead, he stands there stunned and baffled, listening to it ringing in his bedroom down the hall.

  Then, finally, the significance of the sound dawns on him. He stirs, and in the next moment he is moving, first walking, then running, actually running. He turns the corner to his room, stumbles, barks his knee, trips, then bangs his jaw down hard on the edge of the night table. His teeth crack together and for a moment, sprawled there on the floor, hugging his knee, a cold, numb spot in the center of his forehead, he sees stars. The ringing, like a pulse, stabs relentlessly through the shadows of the room. Terrified it will stop, he staggers to his feet and lurches at the phone. Mustn’t stop. Mustn’t.

  “Hello. Hello.”

  “Dr. Konig?”

  “Speaking.”

  A pause, then suddenly the awful shriek. One, then another. A high, stricken sound, like a small animal being slaughtered.

  “Hello,” Konig shouts. “Hello.”

  Someone is breathing back at him from the other end but doesn’t speak. Then another shriek. A long, sustained wail of unutterable horror that stands Konig’s hair on end. “Leave her alone,” he shouts, but there’s a note of pleading to it. “Goddamn you. Leave her alone.”

  Another pause in which he can still hear the breathing on the other end. Then another ghastly scream. A sound so awful, so horrifying, he must make it stop. Must get it out of his head.

  He flings the receiver down with a crash onto the cradle and crouches there shivering on his bed with the sound still shrieking in his ears, and, curiously, the taste of salt in his mouth. He’s unaware of the blood seeping from a broken tooth in his jaw.

  In the next moment the phone rings again. Just as violently as he slammed it down before, he now snatches it up; and there again is that awful, hideous sound.

  “Leave her alone. Please. I beg you, whoever you are. Leave her alone. I’ll pay. I’ll pay you anything. Anything. Just don’t hurt her anymore.”

  Suddenly the screaming ceases as abruptly as it had started. And he’s left there, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead, blood streaming from his mouth onto the bedspread.

  “Good night, Dr. Konig,” says a refined voice whispering at him from the other end.

  »44«

  Interminable night. Night of calls. Night of ringing phones. Dialing and waiting for call-backs. Konig’s old friend the Police Commissioner. Very calm, very wise. Sympathetic. Counseling patience. “Yes, the entire force is on it... Key people detailed... Investigation going speedily forward... Very quiet... very discreet. Hang in there, Paul.” Then down to Washington. To the Bureau, and by midnight, back to New York, his friend the Bureau’s district head in New York, whom he’d gotten out of bed. He’d talked to him only a week ago, and now he could sense the edge of impatience in the man’s voice. More than faintly piqued. “Yes, we’ve got some leads. Nothing definite, mind you, but everything is being checked out Followed up. These people are obviously well financed. Techniques fairly sophisticated. Sufficient evidence to indicate that Meacham had been the brains behind several other kidnappings—identical patterns—in recent years. All under different names. Mountain of information. Files. Dossiers. Police reports. All being collated, analyzed. Very definite picture starting to emerge. If he’s made contact with you, certain we’ll have something tangible in the next week or so.”

  “Next week or so?” Konig murmurs, letting the phone drop back onto the cradle, cold pockets of sweat at the small of the back, in the armpits. And Lolly—that awful sound still resonating in his head.

  Hands trembling, he flips through an address book on his night table. Finding Haggard’s home number, he dials. Gets a wrong number. An irascible voice at the other end. Jarred from sleep and hissing oaths, obscenities, even as Konig apologizes and hangs up. Dials again. This time the quiet, mildly apprehensive voice of a woman unaccustomed to late night calls.

  “Oh, yes, Dr. Konig. Frank’s right here.�
��

  Then Konig, breathless, panting, spewing over into the phone. Frantic. Incoherent. Aware he’s making no sense whatever.

  “Hold everything,” the detective says. “I’ll be right there.”

  “Thank you, Frank. Thank you.” Still saying “thank you” even after he’s hung up.

  Then suddenly alone there, the silence of the house closing in upon him. Sitting there, terrified of the silence, not knowing what to do next. Bathed in sweat, body coiled taut as a spring, he sits there, rigid, erect, waiting he cannot say for what. Possibly the phone. Afraid it will ring again. Afraid it won’t.

  He goes to the bathroom and takes a pair of Librium, then for the first time that night sees his face in the bathroom mirror and he’s alarmed. Truly alarmed. Gray, haggard, vaguely demented, he looks, with a gash of blood now dried at the corner of his mouth and at the crease of his chin, a line moving downward, coagulated russet on the collar of his shirt. Tentatively now, like a man avoiding pain, he glides his tongue over the jagged edge of broken tooth at the back of his mouth. There is, too, inside his mouth, badly abraded tissue where on impact the tooth bit deep into the soft flesh of the inner cheek. But it is that bluish cast to his lips that really alarms him. That ghastly cyanotic blue.

  Konig pads back to the bedroom, still in his clothes, and stretches out full length on the bed, lying there, still panting like a winded, harried animal.

  He’s dead tired but lying there is more of an effort than being up. He must be up now, doing things. Out looking for her. She’s somewhere. Somewhere out there. But he can’t go. Haggard is coming. What for, though? To what end? Useless. Utterly useless.

  Then suddenly a name, like a melody inexplicably recalled, goes through his head. Ginny—Virginia. Can’t recall the last name. Lived in Riverdale though. Lolly’s best friend. High-school chums; later, college. Thick as flies the past ten years or so. Maybe she knows. Maybe Lolly’s called her from someplace. Looking for help. Contacted her, trying to borrow money. Might know something. Some small thing. A clue of her whereabouts. Anything. Oh, God, what was her last name?