Sliver

by Ira Levin

  “Your hands are shaking.”

  She said, “I could see in the elevator something was wrong. Just the fact you were back so soon. What happened?”

  “A guy pulled out of a parking space without looking; we ran into him. On Fifth, near Seventy-ninth Street. A New Jersey driver, of course. It was a Checker cab, so I really got thrown around.” He shook a leg, drew breath hissingly.

  “Gee whiz . . .” she said, pressing at his neck, rubbing it.

  “The car was a brand-new Mercedes.”

  “Was anyone badly hurt?” she asked.

  “The passenger in the car. A woman. Her leg was crushed.”

  “You ought to go to a doctor and get checked over,” she said.

  He turned around. “If anything hurts tomorrow, I will,” he said.

  “Do you have someone here?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  They looked at each other. She touched the edge of his open coat. “Poor Pete,” she said. Smiled at him. Took him in her arms.

  He hugged her. “I should have just gone in someplace and sat awhile,” he said. “It was dumb to come back.”

  “No,” she said, “you were right to.”

  They smiled at each other.

  Kissed.

  They went into 13B. He closed the door. “Have you had your yogurt yet?” he asked, getting out of the coat. Winced.

  “Ooh,” she said. Helped him from behind. “No, I just got down here,” she said. “Norman called after you did. I have to go in in a little while.”

  “You do?” he said, turning, taking the coat.

  “I was going to leave you a note,” she said. “He’s got Anne Tyler coming in at four and he wants me to be there. She isn’t happy where she is now.”

  “It would be nice having her on the list,” he said, rubbing his sweatered shoulder.

  “Wouldn’t it though,” she said. “He feels there’s a good chance. He and June have known her for years.” She went into the kitchen.

  “Let me have one too, hon.”

  She looked into the refrigerator. “Lemon or blueberry?” she asked.

  “Blueberry. New patient with Dr. Palme.”

  “I know.” She took out two yogurts, elbowed the door, got spoons, napkins.

  He was in his chair, the phone at his cheek, when she came in.

  He smiled at her as she put a cup, spoon, and napkin before him. “This is Peter Henderson,” he said. “I had an appointment for two o’clock. . . . Right.”

  She sat, putting her spoon and napkin down, watching the masters.

  “I was in an accident just now,” he said, tucking the phone in his shoulder. “On the way down there. I got a little shaken up. Could we make it Monday, the same time?”

  They opened their cups, watching the masters. Dr. Palme said, “If it’s so inconsequential, why are you here?”

  “It’s Linda’s idea,” the man on the couch said.

  “Even better,” Pete said. “I’m sorry about today. Good-bye.” He hung up. Made a note on the clipboard. “A place that sells paintings on velvet,” he said.

  She whistled.

  They ate their yogurt, watching Dr. Palme, Lauren, Jay, the Hoffmans.

  “I’ve got to get moving,” she said, standing up. She gathered the cups with the spoons and napkins in them, the lids. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Fine,” he said, taking his hand from the back of his neck, watching.

  “Your eyes are okay?”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll be back by six,” she said, “unless we go for drinks.” She bent, kissed his head. He turned his face up to her. They kissed lips.

  She went into the kitchen, put the cups and napkins in the garbage, rinsed the spoons, put them in the rack. Went into the foyer, opened the door. “Oh, the key,” she said.

  “Keep it, honey,” he said, swiveling. “It’s a spare one.”

  Her hand in her pocket, she looked at him sitting dark before the blue-white screens, the hanging sea-green lamp. “Merci,” she said. “Fair enough, since you’ve got one to my place.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” he said. Kissed at her. “I hope it goes well.”

  “Thanks.” She kissed at him. “You ought to take a hot bath,” she said. “A long one, otherwise you’re really going to be sore later on.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “I will, I just want to see Jay’s reaction.”

  They smiled at each other. She opened the door and went out.

  Closed the door.

  Moved to the elevators, touched the up button. Drew a breath.

  Was he lying again? Had he come back because he’d been afraid of her being there alone? But then he wouldn’t have left the key, or given it to her now. Easy enough for the champion liar to invent excuses . . .

  He had seemed shaken up. And coming back home to Mommy fit psychologically. Thank God she hadn’t watched the tapes longer, had closed the baseboard drawer. The cassettes, the right ones, would be safe enough where they were; he was hardly likely to play one.

  He probably had been on his way to an art gallery; Fifty-seventh Street was loaded with them. Buying her a Hopper or a Magritte, no doubt. She sighed, shook her head.

  Gave the camera in the elevator a smile.

  The thing to do was stay calm and act the way she would if she were going to meet with Norman and Anne Tyler, if only. Nothing to make him uneasy if he was watching. Calling 911 was out; he could be up there before they answered. A confrontation was the last thing she wanted.

  Felice rubbed against her ankle as she turned the door bolt. “Hi, sweets,” she said, picking her up; kissed her nose and put her on her shoulder, stroked her as she went into the bedroom. The machine’s red light sparked—visible on the masters. If he was watching.

  She spilled Felice onto the bed and went to the desk. One message, the machine’s indicator said. She touched the playback button, praying it wouldn’t be Sara saying the wrong thing.

  A woman from Bloomingdale’s told her that the coffee table would be delayed two more weeks; they were sorry.

  She turned the radio on, went to the window. Eyed the gray sky above the brown park. Felice, on the windowsill, nuzzled her knee; she scratched Felice’s head. A newscaster told about a shooting in the subway. She went to the closets, unbuttoning her shirt. Opened accordion doors.

  She chose the blue wool dress—okay for Anne Tyler, fine for the police. Laid it out on the bed, pushing Felice away. Got panty hose from the dresser, a half-slip, a bra.

  Shower?

  Would he notice if she didn’t? Think it odd? Wonder why she was suddenly skipping the goddamn shower?

  If he was watching . . .

  Would he wonder enough to go check his cassettes? The cassettes, not the cases? Unlikely. But if he did, he could stop the elevator at thirteen when she was leaving. . . .

  She undressed. The newscaster talked about snow on its way from western Pennsylvania, four to eight inches. She turned the radio off.

  Went into the bathroom. Put the shower cap on. Felice scratched in the litter box.

  She leaned in at the shower door, grasped the chrome Art Deco handle, turned it. Its twin from 13A or B had surely been the glint on that slashing club or bat or whatever. The police would probably still be able to find marks on it, microscopic scratches.

  She felt the water, turned it hotter.

  Stepped into the black glass stall, drew the door closed.

  Made it a quickie. Marveled as she scrubbed that the Pete she had loved—still loved, hated, pitied—could be the same Pete who had swung that brutal blow, had drowned Sheer there on the floor. . . .

  He must have spent hours fixing things right and cleaning up—all of it on tape. A major event—on the night before that glorious morning when she had circled the reservoir and bumped into Sam, and would he be astounded when he heard the whole story. A change in the light outside the steamy door?

  She wiped a hand across it, pee
red out—at the empty bathroom.

  Her imagination.

  She rinsed off. Calmly. Going to meet with Norman and Anne Tyler. June too, of course.

  She opened the door, took the towel from the hook.

  Dried herself, took off the shower cap, hung it on the handle; went out. Nothing on the floor by the bath mat.

  She finished drying at the sink, looking in the mirror at herself, not at the light up behind her.

  She went into the bedroom, sat on the bed and put on the panty hose; stood, worked them up, snugged them. Put on the bra, caught her breasts in it; went to the window, hooking the strap behind her.

  She stood looking at the gray sky, adjusting the bra. Snow on the way, all right. The reservoir was wind-ruffled, a few joggers on the track beyond it.

  She moved to the end of the window, drew the draperies. The green-and-white chintz panels swept together, brushing against the edge of the windowsill, bare except for the telescope.

  She went into the bathroom, put on minimal makeup. Should have said she was going to help Roxie move furniture . . .

  She thought about the chaos ahead, the trial, the media piranhas in a feeding frenzy, biting not only at Pete but at her too, the older woman taken in by the so-much-younger man. Sweet Jesus, the hypocritical sympathy she’d be getting from men and women, the smirks behind her back. She longed to talk with Roxie (“Got a problem, Rox, Pete’s a murderer”). Sirens far away screamed louder, coming up Madison.

  Screamed louder, klaxons barking, screamed right outside; whooped and moaned low, engines throbbing.

  She went into the living room, brushing at her hair. Went to the window, stood close against the sill, a hand to the upright bronze framing at its middle; leaned her forehead to the glass.

  Red lights spun far below, fire engines in front of the Wales, tiny figures scurrying into its base.

  She scanned the red-swept front of the hotel, its roof—no smoke or flames.

  A false alarm, she hoped. Fine, it would distract him.

  She moved to the end of the window, drew the draperies. The white silk panels swept together, brushing against the edge of the windowsill.

  She went back through the living room, detoured into the kitchen to shut the faucet tight, went into the bathroom.

  Realized, finishing her hair, that books were going to be written about the case—and Diadem without a true-crime writer, more the pity. Although . . . whether she wanted it or not, as a major participant she was going to be in a fantastic bargaining position. If one of the big names was amenable to moving . . .

  Talk about looking on the bright side . . .

  She went into the bedroom, picked up the slip. The phone rang. She caught the night table’s handset. “Hello?” she said, ready to cut Sara short.

  “Hi.”

  She said, “Hi. Excitement across the street.”

  “It was a false alarm.”

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  “Kay . . . I can’t let you go out, or call anyone.”

  She stood holding the phone. Said, “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh honey, please . . . You know. The cassettes. Listen.”

  She listened.

  Heard purring.

  Stared at the draperies, the door.

  Hadn’t seen Felice since—before the shower—

  She drew breath. Turned, sat on the side of the bed. “Pete, don’t hurt her,” she said.

  “She’s lying here in my lap and I’m tickling her ears with an X-acto knife. You know what that is, don’t you? Like a pen, but with a pointy razor at the tip; I used it on the labels. The orange ear, twitch . . . The white ear, twitch . . .”

  “Pete, please . . .” she said.

  “I don’t want to use it on her but if you don’t do exactly what I tell you, I will. I need some time. To think things out.”

  “Fine,” she said. “You can have all the time you want.” She turned around, looked up toward the light beyond the foot of the bed. “Just don’t hurt her,” she said. “I know you won’t, you love her.” She looked at the light’s chrome iris, at her upside-down self sitting stuck to the upside-down bed, holding the white speck of phone.

  “I’ll do it if you make me, Kay, I promise you.”

  “You can have all the time you want,” she said to the light.

  “You were going to the police. If I’d gotten back five minutes later those would have been their sirens before.”

  “No, I don’t know what I was going to do,” she said. “I wanted to get out somewhere and do some thinking myself, without being watched.”

  “Don’t shit me, Kay. You were going to take the tapes to the police, that’s why you switched them.”

  “I was going to hide them up here,” she said. “I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to talk with you, to hear—why you did what you did, to try to understand, but I was afraid. I thought having the tapes would give me some security. That’s why I was taking them.”

  “You’re going to do what I tell you, otherwise Felice gets it. I know which tape you watched and how much, you didn’t rewind, so you know I’ll really do it if I have to, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said to the light. “I do.”

  “I need time to think. You can put some clothes on and you can work if you want—on the bed, I can see you better. If the phone rings, don’t touch it, let the machine take it. And you only pick up if it’s me. Got it?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Is the machine set right, so you can hear who’s calling?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “We’ll talk later. I want to. Put your jeans on, or whatever you want.”

  “Were you really in an accident?” she asked.

  “No. It dawned on me what you were up to. Do you know where I was going? To buy you a Hopper. Now look at us.”

  “Don’t blame me,” she said to the light.

  “Why not, you invaded my privacy, didn’t you? It’s ironic, isn’t it? I guess it makes us even, more or less. Go on, get dressed. And remember, don’t touch the phone unless it’s me. And don’t get up without asking. Don’t do anything that’ll—rock the boat. I’ll be watching you every second.”

  Even, more or less . . .

  Except for a few murders on his part, and menacing Felice with a razor knife—if he wasn’t lying again.

  Probably wasn’t, having done what he’d done to Sheer.

  She shivered. Hoped it looked like a reaction to the book she was holding open before her. Calm . . .

  As long as he was willing to talk, as long as he was thinking things out, everything could end peacefully with nobody hurt—not Felice, not her, not him either. He couldn’t hope to kill her and pass it off as an accident or suicide, not so soon after Sheer’s death. And once murder was suspected, he, her lover, was bound to be the leading suspect. His owning the building would be discovered, and the screens in 13B, the cameras; all the deaths would be reinvestigated. Surely he would see it, or could be made to see it. His best bet, his only bet, was to turn himself in, hire one of the superstar lawyers, plead insanity. . . .

  But what if, being insane, he didn’t see it?

  If she ran, he could cut her off, on the stairs or in the elevators. If she called the police or threw a chair through the window, he’d be the first one up there, with his passkey. . . .

  Felice purring in his lap . . .

  Damn him. There had to be a way to outwit him if he wouldn’t see reason. . . . Think Gothic. . . .

  He watched her pretending to read.

  She was thinking, bet your bippy, about how to get him to go to the Nineteenth Precinct with her and turn himself in. Plead insanity.

  Why the hell had she had to go snooping where she didn’t belong? They’d had it all, or could have, and zap—nothing.

  No question about what he had to do now, whether he wanted to or not.

  She’d really left him no choice.

  But how?

  Not
a chance in a million of getting away with another fake accident or suicide, not so soon after Rocky. And the minute the cops started thinking murder, he would be the number-one suspect, the boyfriend or husband always was (and rightly so, eh Dad?). Everything would unravel, everything. . . .

  Unless . . .

  The cops thought somebody else had murdered her . . . Were sure somebody else had. . . .

  He looked to the left.

  Touched the 3B top button, the 1 button.

  Felice squirmed in his lap; he raised his hand. She jumped to the floor, prowled away sniffing.

  He put the X-acto knife on the console. Took some jelly beans.

  Leaned back, chewing, watching the masters.

  Sam on 1, her on 2 . . .

  It took him a minute or so to work it out. The shape, not the details.

  Two big questions: could he leave her unwatched for fifteen or twenty minutes tonight while Sam was out seeing Candace’s play? And could he keep her quiet and under control till tomorrow night, the soonest he could hope to set it up for?

  Salvation if he could swing it. Neat too—in both senses, neat-cool and neat-neat. Two birds with one stone . . .

  He watched them.

  Sam on 1, jabbing away at the old portable. Kay on 2, turning pages . . .

  THREE

  11

  SHE CLOSED THE BOOK. Took her glasses off, looked up at the light. Said, “I’d like to go in the kitchen and get a cup of coffee.” She sat looking at the light. At the book, front and back. The phone rang.

  She turned to the night table—4:22 on the clock. The phone rang.

  She put the glasses on the table, the book on the stack beneath, sat up. The phone rang; the machine atop the desk clicked. She combed her hands through her hair. “Hello,” her voice said. “I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you’ll leave your message when the beep sounds, I’ll return your call as soon as possible. Thank you.”

  The machine beeped.

  “It’s me,” his voice said.

  She picked up the phone. “May I?” she said.

  “Let’s wait till the machine cuts off.”

  She sighed. Sat looking at the draperies, the desk, the light. At Tiny holding the phone . . .

  Beep.