It was all so clear….
But what could he do? Nothing. Nothing at all, he told himself. If he told Lenore now about Bob, that would only make her more savagely determined than ever to write her article. If he went to her and begged her not to—saying that since she had wrecked his marriage she might at least think twice about wrecking his life—she would become all moral—as only the truly immoral can—and say that it was her duty to publish the truth. And if, as an extreme measure—and he considered the idea, though wildly—he killed Lenore, and Bob, and Smith, that would be useless too. Because by now lots of people must know about the article, and to kill three people would only serve to put him in prison for life. Because it wouldn’t be long before the reason for their deaths became obvious. No. If he was going to kill to prevent the article being written, he would have to kill half New York. All those bright, guilty people who were destroying his dream. All those weak, evil people who knew about Fred O’Connor, and were probably now, at this very minute, laughing at the big empty space that was his soul.
He sat there, hardly noticing that the snow had started to fall outside, hardly aware of his great red warrior’s body, hardly aware of his quiet, beloved apartment. He sat there, only really aware of the fact that he had been defeated and there was nothing, nothing he could do about it. He sat there, only waiting, and wishing that the end would come quickly. He sat there and sat there—and when the doorbell rang he was almost happy that it was all over. He got up quite lightly, and easily, to let Lenore in.
But when he did open the door he didn’t see Lenore. He saw only a youth in a black woollen cap and dark glasses. He saw, in fact, only Smith. Still, he wasn’t particularly surprised, and guessed that it didn’t make any difference.
He said, ‘Where’s Lenore?’
The youth pulled off his cap—he had longish pale hair—and frowned. ‘Who’s Lenore?’ he asked. He had a thin, weak, monotonous voice. Fred shrugged. He was too tired to play games. He murmured, ‘You coming in?’
The youth nodded, took two steps forward, and took off his dark glasses. He had pale, watery blue eyes that were red around the rims. He said, ‘Hi, I’m Leo Smith.’
Wearily, Fred said ‘Hi.’ Then, ‘How come the doorman didn’t call up?’
The youth giggled. ‘There was only one on duty, and I waited until he was helping some old lady into a taxi. Then I slipped in.’
Wearily, Fred nodded. It didn’t matter how he had come in. Nothing mattered any more. He said ‘Did Lenore—’ and then he stopped. The phone was ringing. Not the house number, but the regular phone; and only he and Bob had the number.
The youth started ‘Who’s this Len—’ but Fred held up his hand, to silence him.
After two rings the phone stopped. It was Bob’s signal. Because although only they two had the number, they had always agreed to give two rings, hang up, and then ring again, if they wanted to call each other. Fred wondered whether, when Bob called back, he should answer. After all—what could Bob say now? But then, when the phone started ringing again, he thought that he might as well. Maybe Bob would have some plan for stopping Lenore and Smith. He picked up the phone—it was on the floor, by the door, and said ‘Hi, Bob?’
‘Yes, it’s me,’ Bob said sadly. Then: ‘You haven’t seen Lenore, have you?’
‘No. But—’
‘Thank God,’ Bob interrupted, sounding strangely excited now —at least, for him. ‘I just got in and there’s a note from her here. She said she’s gone to have lunch with some old friends of hers who’ve just moved back to New York. And guess where they live? Eight-eight Central Park West! It’s incredible! I couldn’t believe it when I saw it. I imagined you bumping into each other in the elevator.’ He laughed, nervously. ‘It must be the apartment above ours. The doorman told me that some new people were moving in a couple of weeks ago. Anyway, Lenore left me the telephone number, and it’s not ours!’ Another laugh. ‘But be careful when you’re leaving.’
‘I will,’ Fred said, ‘and thanks for letting me know.’ He sounded, and felt, friendlier towards Bob than he had ever felt since that first day in the shabby bar on Avenue B. ‘That’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it?’ he added.
‘It sure is.’ Bob laughed once more. ‘I hope she doesn’t go to visit these friends too often. Otherwise—’
‘Bob,’ Fred said, ‘I’m taking a shower. I’ll see you later. But thanks again.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Bob said. ‘See you.’
Fred hung up, took a step over to the door, and put the chain on it. And then he started laughing, much as he had started laughing when he had recognized Lenore in the subway. Only this time he didn’t stop immediately. He laughed and laughed and laughed, and as he laughed he felt all his power and safety returning to him. Well—almost all his safety. There was still this Smith to be dealt with. But now that he knew that there was no organized plot against him, that not everyone knew about his apartment and was laughing at him and planning to destroy him, he felt he could deal with anything. He laughed and laughed and laughed, and at least two minutes passed before he was able to control himself and turn to face the pale, red-eyed youth who called himself Smith.
Towering over him, he growled, ‘Who the hell are you?’
Smith lowered his eyes for a second, and gave a slight smile. Then, looking up again, with a coy expression and a coyer little shrug of his shoulders, he murmured, ‘I’m the cop-killer.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Fred stared at the youth; stared at him as if he would crush him with his eyes. He took in the pale weak face, the pale thin hair, the white thin hands—hands so thin they looked like a monkey’s hands—and the pale lips, now no longer smiling, but trembling slightly. With fear? With excitement? He didn’t know. He looked at the shabby brown suede jacket, the high necked black sweater, the jeans and the heavy shoes, that were stained damp and had a ring of white around them where the salt on the snowy sidewalks had eaten into them. He wondered how old he was. Twenty-two? Thirty-two? It was difficult to tell in one so pale and weak. He must have looked the same at fourteen, and he would look the same at forty. He stared at him and stared at him, and then, remembering how he had run from this wretched weak creature, how this pale thin figure had pursued him and frightened him, he suddenly lost control of himself. He lifted one of his great red hands and hit the youth across the side of the face; hit him so hard that Smith fell to the floor, and blood started running from his nose. He wanted to kick him then; kick him in the face, in the stomach, in the kidneys, in the groin; and he would have done if the pale watery blue eyes hadn’t gazed up from the floor and—there was no doubt about it—willed him to do just that; begged him silently to do it; to kick him, beat him, smash him to pieces.
He stood over the wretched bleeding figure, and then took a step back; and then, suddenly, he said, ‘I’ve seen you before somewhere.’
‘We saw each other on the subway. And on Brooklyn Bridge,’ Smith murmured pleasantly in his soft monotone. He sounded as if he were at a cocktail party, smooth and feeble and social. He was from New England, Fred guessed.
‘No. I’ve seen you somewhere else—without all your gear on.’
Smith smiled. ‘You might have done. I mean I’ve seen you. Lots of times.’ Then he frowned. ‘Oh I know. It was in a news-stand on Forty-Second Street. Outside the public library. You were trying to buy the Times. They didn’t have it. That was the first time you ever actually looked at me I think.’
Fred remembered that morning, and remembered the pale thin youth who had been standing there, and who had disappeared when he had had to ask a second time for the paper. Was this the same person? He stared. It was possible. And then he remembered having thought that the youth was no one to worry about. Yes. He guessed it was the same. Though really, with a face like that, it was difficult to be sure. There were so many weak wretched faces in New York.
Smith wiped his bleeding nose with the back of his hand and murmured, in his same social mann
er, ‘Do you think I could get up? Otherwise I’m going to spill blood all over your carpet.’
‘Yeah,’ said Fred, and watched the youth—well, he guessed he was just a boy still, however old he was—pick himself up.
‘Do you have a handkerchief?’
Fred felt in his pocket and handed him one; and then suddenly thought that he had better frisk the boy, and make sure he wasn’t armed.
Smith—with the handkerchief held to his nose with one hand, and the other hand, theatrically, held vertically, didn’t protest or say a word till Fred had finished; then, pleasantly as ever, and with a soft flat laugh, said ‘I left my bread-knife at home.’
Fred made himself stop to think before he said any more; made himself think what he could say, or do with this feeble creature who said he was the cop-killer.
‘Why’ve you been following me?’ he finally managed.
‘Oh I was just very tired suddenly,’ Smith breathed wearily, as if three sets of tennis were really too much for him ….
‘So—?’
‘So I thought I’d give myself up.’ He smiled again.
It wasn’t tennis he’d been playing, but hide-and-seek….
‘And why’d you choose me?’
Smith gazed at him with his red-rimmed eyes, and now was smiling no longer. ‘I had to give myself up to someone. But I didn’t want to go up to just any cop and say “I’m the cop-killer”. I had to choose. And I thought you were—the best.’
‘Why?’ Fred repeated.
Smith glanced round the empty hallway, and down the long corridor. It was the glance of someone who was used to big apartments. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘It had to be someone special. Someone who would understand.’
‘How long have you been following me for?’
‘About a year, I guess,’ Smith frowned. ‘I can’t really remember the exact date. But—about a year.’
Fred hit him again. It was almost involuntary. He couldn’t stand that face and that voice. The blow sent Smith staggering back across the hall, but he didn’t fall over; nor even put his hand to his face, that was red now, and bruised. In fact he didn’t seem to be aware that he’d been hit at all. He went on, ‘I guess that was another reason why I finally let you see me. I was getting bored with following you. And bored with everything.’ His eyes narrowed now. ‘That’s why I killed that last cop—Petrie—in a different way. I just couldn’t be bothered. And the papers were right. I was getting careless, and if I’d gone on I probably would have been caught.’ He shrugged, thoughtfully. ‘I guess I shouldn’t have killed him at all. I mean it was sort of messy, and spoiled the style of all the rest. But then it was also a sort of joke. You know—just to confuse everyone.’
Fred—mighty, and red—looked down at the pale, bruised boy. He said quietly, ‘You’re not the cop-killer. You never killed anyone in your life. You’re just some sick creep who—’ Who what? He didn’t know. He stopped.
‘You’re right in a way,’ Smith agreed affably. ‘I never have killed anyone. I mean—I never have.’
Fred stared.
‘But sometimes—’ Smith laughed coyly, ‘I’m not I. Me. I mean—I never really knew what I was doing when I went after those guys. Well, I sort of knew. I mean I planned everything very carefully, and I chose men all from the same division and I always did it in the same way—apart from this last one—so everything would be neat, and, like I said, stylish. But I’ve got another life, a regular life—’ he smiled. ‘I live with my grandmother mostly, in Providence. She’s rich and she’ll leave me all her money when she dies. At least—I lived with her mostly until about a year ago. When I found you. Then instead of just coming down to New York for two or three days a week I’ve been down here nearly all the time. I’ve just been going up to Providence for the day, every now and then. But that’s my real life, if you like. All this thing with the cops—that’s just been my secret life, sort of.’ He glanced again round the hallway, and down the corridor. ‘But it was a secret life I couldn’t admit even to myself. So you see what I mean. In a way it wasn’t me who was killing those cops. You see—I knew exactly what I was doing, but—I didn’t know what I was doing, if you follow. It was like I was dreaming that I was awake. I knew I wasn’t awake, but I behaved in my dream exactly as if I were. And that’s another reason why I had to stop. Because the dream and the real life were growing further and further apart, and I could see the day coming—’ he sounded quite indignant now—‘when I didn’t have any real life left at all—only the dream. I—’
‘Bullshit,’ Fred said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Bullshit, I said. That’s all bullshit.’
Smith shrugged unoffended. ‘Well it might be, but it’s true, too.’
‘And what’s this now, here with me? You, or not you?’
Smith smiled. ‘Oh, this is me. I mean I had to admit to myself what I’d been doing eventually. After all,’ he went on casually, and with the air of explaining something simple to a cretinous child, ‘we are responsible for our dreams, aren’t we? Just as much as we’re responsible for our reality, let’s say.’
‘For Chrissa—’
But Smith hadn’t finished. ‘And like I said that’s the reason why I chose you to come to. Because if I’d just gone up to any old cop and said “I’m the cop-killer”—well—I mean—I couldn’t have done. I couldn’t have admitted it. Because it wasn’t me, so I couldn’t have admitted it. I’ve never, even for a second, admitted it to myself until this minute. But somehow I knew you’d understand me.’ He gazed at Fred almost flirtatiously now. ‘I mean I didn’t know what this place of yours would be like. I thought it might be full of priceless antiques, or full of paintings of nude women, or—anything. But I knew that whatever it was like, and whatever you were like—you were the right person to come to.’
‘Bullshit’ Fred wanted to say again. But he didn’t. Instead, he muttered, ‘How did you know?’
‘Well, I had to follow and check up on a lot of cops. I mean —you know—to pick my victims. But the very first time I followed you—’ he smiled—‘you went all the way uptown on the East Side to buy the Times, and then went all the way back downtown, and then came all the way back up here, and I knew. I knew. I mean—I knew,’ he repeated for the third time.
Weakly now, Fred said again, ‘You’re not the cop-killer. You’re just crazy.’
Smith paused before replying, and looked down at his thin pale hands. Then he looked up again, and raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, you might be right,’ he said. ‘About me being crazy.’ He paused again. ‘And about me not being the cop-killer. I mean I explained—’ then he stopped, and obviously changed his mind about what he was going to say. ‘But I say I am. And that means—well, you can’t just throw me out, can you? Because you never know. I might never have another moment of sanity, and go on killing for the rest of my life. So you’ve got to arrest me, haven’t you? Unless—’ he paused once more, and yet again seemed coy, and flirtatious, ‘you kill me. In which case if I am the cop-killer—that’s the end of that. And if I’m not—well, at least I’ll never be able to tell anyone—your superiors, or the press—about all this.’
‘If,’ Fred said slowly, ‘I do arrest you, will you—’ he cleared his throat—‘tell anyone about me? About this?’
Smith smiled. ‘Well I might, and I might not. But you can’t count on my word. After all, as you said, I’m crazy.’
Fred’s throat was dry. He couldn’t think. He said, even more slowly, and hearing the lunacy of his words, ‘Do you want me to kill you?’
But if he was feeling out of his depth, Smith looked as if he were full of confidence, and enjoying himself, ‘Well,’ he purred smoothly, ‘it would be the ultimate experience, wouldn’t it? Like the dream and reality becoming one in death.’
He sounded as if he were proposing a new game to his rich Rhode Island friends; and Fred, helpless now, whispered, ‘How do you—I mean—would you—want me to kill you?’
>
‘Oh I don’t know,’ Smith sighed, unable to choose between a hundred different dishes on a menu. ‘Slowly, I guess. Just so I would experience it. Really.’
Fred closed his eyes, and floundered, struggled in the waters that were engulfing him. And then suddenly, without quite knowing how, he found himself shooting to the surface, breaking out into the air. Suddenly he could see clearly again, could breathe. Smith was crazy, and he was here in his apartment; but outside it was a grey, snowy February day, and people were going about their business, and he, quite soon—he looked at his watch—had to go on duty. Smith was a problem, a terrible problem, but like any problem he could be dealt with as long as he thought about him rationally and logically. What was he? A crazy youth who said he was the cop-killer. What was to be done about him? He didn’t know, but certainly nothing rash. He would think about it, and decide.
He said—the firm policeman with the neat mind—‘I don’t know what I’ll do about you. But I gotta go to work now. I’ll come back later this evening.’
‘That’s okay. I’ll wait,’ Smith murmured airily.
Fred finally permitted himself one of his smiles. ‘You better believe you’ll wait. I’m going to make damn sure you wait.’
‘Are you going to tie me up?’ The boy sounded eager now—and looked eager; as eager as he had looked when Fred had hit him, and when he had suggested that Fred kill him.
His eagerness made Fred feel sick; but he said, ‘Yes.’
‘How long will you be away?’
‘I’ll be back around ten this evening I guess.’
‘What happens—’ the voice was plaintive, but also very slightly amused—‘if I have to pee?’
Fred considered for a moment; then he said, ‘I’ll tie you up and lock you in the bathroom.’
Smith nodded approvingly, as if he had already foreseen that move.
‘What are you going to tie me up with?’
Fred considered again; then he muttered, unwillingly, ‘A tie, I guess.’
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