The Will to Kill

by Robert Bloch

  “There’s nothing to tell them, anyway.”

  “I know.” Howard showed me what those black eyebrows looked like when they formed a frown. “That’s just the trouble with this whole case. Nothing to tell them, and they keep blowing up the Ripper angle. I don’t like to think about the general reaction when Miss Schuyler’s death hits the headlines tomorrow morning.”

  “Three years until election,” I reminded him. It wasn’t kind, and I regretted it.

  “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. I’m talking about the fear psychology—women staying off the streets, locking their kids in the basement. That sort of thing. A panic is easy to start and hard to stop or control.”

  “You’re so right,” Mr. Mingo observed. “When Jack the Ripper was—you might say—carving himself a career in London, the carpenters and cabinetmakers went from house to house, selling locks and window reinforcements. Things reached such a state of tension that the women of the East End sent a petition to the Queen. There was some talk of sending the army into Whitechapel.”

  “I doubt if we’ve reached that stage here,” the District Attorney informed him. “And while I admire your encyclopedic knowledge, I suggest that the less you display in this particular instance, the better. You know what happens whenever we get this sort of a case, Mingo. The news seems to stir up every psychopath in town. Which reminds me.” Howard glanced at his watch. “I’m due for the show-up. I’ve issued orders to bring in everyone with a previous record in affairs like this, and the boys have been busy. So if you’ll excuse me—” He hesitated and turned to me. “Mr. Kendall, would you care to join me? It might be that you’ll recognize someone or something that would help give us a lead.”

  I shook my head. “No, thank you. I may not have a lot of friends, but I’ve chosen them pretty carefully. And none of them are pathological degenerates.”

  “Thank you, darling,” said Kit, sweetly.

  “Right now I want out of here,” I went on.

  “Can’t say that I blame you,” Howard observed. “But will you keep your eyes open during the next few days and report anything unusual? People who try to contact you, people who say things that might have a bearing on the case?”

  I nodded.

  “And keep in touch with us, will you? Call me, or Lieutenant Cohen.”

  “Of course I will.”

  “And remember one thing more. No heroics. None of this boy-detective stuff, going out on your own and hunting down the killer while I just sit in my office here and twiddle my thumbs. That’s all right for the comic books, but we have a solid law-enforcement agency in this town. Understand?”

  “You needn’t worry. The farther away I stay from the whole business, the happier I’ll be. And my happiness will be complete when you pick up Joe Calgary. Take my word for it, he’s your Ripper.”

  I left him with this nugget, this brilliant example of my deductive powers, and went out into the night with Kit and Anthony Mingo.

  Mr. Mingo had a car. It was a Lancia with delicate lines, but big enough so that the three of us could occupy the front seat.

  “I’d like a word with you, my dear boy,” he said, as we drove away. “But I appreciate how you must feel. Perhaps tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep, you might favor me with a visit at the office?”

  “Anything you say.”

  “I’ll drop you off at your place, now.”

  “Fine.”

  Kit held my arm tight. “I still can’t quite believe it,” she told me. “Wasn’t it lucky that—” She paused, and her fingers dug deeper into my elbow. “No, I don’t mean it, not about that poor girl. Tom, what’s happening? Two murders in a row like that—it’s frightening.”

  “Not when you consider precedent, Katherine.” Anthony Mingo talked as he drove. “For example, I recall the Black Dahlia murders, out on the Coast. In that series—”

  “I don’t want to hear about any more murders tonight. Please, Tony, you promised.”

  I looked at Kit. Then I remembered she had almost been engaged to him once, whatever that meant. Even so, I couldn’t quite swallow the “Tony.” Anthony Mingo, whatever place he occupied in my life now or in the future, would never be “Tony” to me.

  Kit was upset. I didn’t want to disturb her any further, but there was one thing I had to know. I tried to make it sound casual.

  “How did things go at the store today?” I asked. “Any trouble?”

  “No. We did thirty-seven in the stamps on walk-ins and about thirty on approvals. Nine on books, nothing in coins. Reeber brought in those magazines you ordered—a complete file of Fantasy and Science Fiction, in good condition.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Anything else.”

  She drew in her breath suddenly, and cat claws raked my arm. “I—I forgot! The most important thing of all, and I forgot. Somebody broke into the store the other night. The glass was splintered all around the lock, but—”

  “Nothing was stolen,” I finished for her. “Nothing that you could see. Yes, I know about that, Kit. Somebody broke in and took that poniard, that French dagger. Cohen’s already checked on it, so don’t worry.”

  “I do worry, darling. I can’t help it. I’ll worry all night until I see you in the morning.”

  I had an answer for that, but not in front of Mr. Mingo. After all, he had been almost engaged to her, once.

  But when we pulled up in front of my apartment, I opened the door and said, “Come on up for a while, Kit. It’s still early and I want to talk to you about those approvals.” I leaned over and nodded at Mingo. “It’s all right. It’ll see that she gets home safely.”

  Kit sat there in the car.

  I reached for her arm. She moved away. She didn’t pull away, just moved. But the withdrawal was unmistakable.

  “Please, Tom. Not tonight. I’m a little upset, and—”

  “Sure. I understand. It’ll keep until morning. You’ll drop her off, Mr. Mingo?”

  He nodded, quickly—too quickly to suit me.

  In fact, nothing suited me right now. Nothing would ever suit me as long as I knew that Kit was afraid of me.

  I clenched my fists and bent down to kiss her. She didn’t draw back. She was willing enough to kiss me as long as Mingo was there. I didn’t even doubt that she still loved me and would go on loving me. But she wouldn’t come up to my apartment. Because Marie had died, and Trixie had died.

  All of a sudden I realized that my promises to Howard weren’t meant to be kept.

  I couldn’t stay out of this, because I was still in it, up to my neck. I’d be in it until the killer was found, until I was really cleared, and Kit knew it and wasn’t afraid any more.

  “Goodnight, Tom.” She pulled her head away.

  “Tomorrow in my office, then? You’ll call first?”

  I nodded at Mingo, nodded at her, and the car pulled away.

  Then I went inside, went upstairs to my apartment. There was no mail, but I wouldn’t have opened it if there was. Instead, I wanted to open the windows, open my shaving kit, open my pores under a shower. And I wanted to open a bottle.

  I did what I wanted, all of it. The cork came out of the Old Overholt at precisely eleven. I know, because I was looking at the clock when the phone rang.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Tom! I just heard you got out. Is it too late, or can I come up?”

  “Are you nearby?”

  “Just down the street. Ten minutes, huh?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Sure, Art. See you.”

  Art Hughes was paying me a visit.

  I made the necessary preparations. That is, I got out the ice cubes, a second glass and a bottle of white soda. Art never took his straight. I rummaged around looking for my bottle opener, but I couldn’t find it. I ended up by prying the cap off with a butcher knife.

  Then Art knocked on the door. When I opened it, I realized my preparations might be superfluous. Because Art was drunk. Not “high” and not “loaded”—just drunk. He
hadn’t sounded that way on the phone, but there always seems to be an extra effort to disguise the condition when a drunk telephones. Besides, he’d been out in the air after his call.

  He stood swaying there in the hallway until I motioned him to come inside.

  “Tom!” he said. “Good to see you. Good old Tom.” No slurring. No “Good ol’ Tom.” He could talk straight enough. But he weaved when he walked, and his eyes didn’t track properly.

  “Where were you?” I asked. “Swanee’s?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “Psychic. Here, have a drink.” I poured and indicated a chair for him alongside the kitchen table. He sprawled, reached, gulped.

  “I’ll bet Swanee’s is doing a roaring business tonight,” I said. “Everybody in there, asking questions. You ask any questions, Art?”

  “Who—me?”

  “Don’t try to fool me.” I grinned at him. “I’ll bet you could hardly wait to rush down there and look for clues.”

  “Well, I was only trying to help. You know. Only trying to help.” He wasn’t grinning. He meant it.

  “What about the cops, Art? Did you help there, too?”

  “Sure. All I could. You know about that, huh?”

  “Of course. And I appreciate it. Told them about Marie, eh?”

  He looked puzzled, then worried. “Not me, Tom. It wasn’t me. They knew all about her before they asked me. And I couldn’t deny it. Could I, now, could I, Tom?”

  “No. I guess you had to tell them.”

  “After all, it was for your own good. I mean, this other one—this Joan somebody—she hadn’t been killed yet, and I thought that if—if—”

  “You thought that if I had killed Trixie, it would be better if the police figured I was crazy. Is that it?”

  “Right, Tom. Right. You can understand that, can’t you? I’m your friend.”

  “You’re my friend, but you believed I killed Trixie.”

  “No, Tom. Look, you’re getting me all mixed up. I come—came around here now because I’m your friend. Because I’m glad you got out. Now you’re free, Tom. You can go away. You can go away to some other town and see a doctor like I told you. Those blackouts, Tom—did you ever think maybe it was some kind of brain tumor? Gershwin had a brain tumor, Tom. He used to get those—”

  “Never mind Gershwin tonight.” I poured him another drink. “And I’m not angry because you talked to the police. I know you did what you thought was right, and you want to help.”

  “That’s the truth, Tom. I want to help.” He reached for the glass. “All day long, that’s all I’ve been thinking about—how I could help.” He took a mouthful, swallowed, shuddered. “I did my best.”

  He did his best. The thought hit me, then: why Kit was afraid.

  “One thing I don’t like, though,” I said. “And you might as well know it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You didn’t have to call Kit and tell her. Tell her that I’d threatened her, that she wasn’t safe with me.”

  His mouth worked, struggling to get the words out. “But Tom, I didn’t—!”

  “Don’t lie to me.” I stood up, stood over him, and for the second time that night my hands formed fists. “You called her when you left the District Attorney’s office. You called her and warned her to keep away from me.”

  He cringed. Once, in the shop, when we worked together, I saw Art Hughes in action. A crane mooring snapped, and three tons of steel started to slide down to the floor. There was a little sweeper working right underneath, and Art Hughes was twenty feet away. He ran forward and tackled the sweeper, rolled over twice and out of the way just as the steel fell.

  And now, when I stood over him, he cringed.

  All of a sudden I had to sit down. “Sorry, Art,” I said. “This whole thing’s too rough for me, I guess.”

  He nodded, and it was the nod of a man who was sobering up, fast. But he didn’t look at me. He stared down at the table as he talked.

  “You got to remember one thing,” he said. “I’m your friend, Tom. That’s why I did it. That’s why I want you to see a doctor and get straightened out again. It’s for your own good. Don’t forget, I saw it happen to Marie.”

  “Good God, man, you can’t believe that! You were there, you know I didn’t kill Marie.”

  He sighed, but he still wouldn’t look at me. “That’s right. Not with a knife, you didn’t. But why do you think she died, Tom? You wouldn’t know, would you? But I know. I know because I used to sit with her, times when you were away, out wandering around with those spells of yours. I listened to her cry, I know what she was thinking, worrying and wondering and waiting, night after night, until—”

  “All right, Art,” I said. “According to you, then, I really did kill her in a manner of speaking. Only Oscar Wilde said it better. Each man kills the thing he loves, isn’t that it? The coward does it with a kiss, the brave man with a sword. And maybe it’s better that I don’t do any more kissing until this thing is over with.”

  He wouldn’t look at me. He just stared down at the kitchen table, and kept mumbling.

  “See a doctor, Tom. See a doctor before it’s too late. That Kit, she’s a fine girl. See a doctor and don’t talk about killing any more. Or swords. I come up to help you, and you’re sitting here at the table with—”

  Then I knew why he didn’t look at me. I knew what he was looking at instead.

  It was resting next to the white soda bottle. The butcher knife.

  “Go home, Art,” I said. “Go home. It’s all right. There’s a plainclothes man downstairs, watching the place. I’m sure of it. So I wouldn’t harm you. Go home, Art.”

  He went home.

  After he left I sat there for a long time. It was my turn to stare at the butcher knife. And as I stared, I wondered. I hadn’t killed Joan Schuyler. That was certain. But I’d threatened Kit—

  I couldn’t remember what happened just before Trixie died . . . I’d come out of a blackout to look down at Marie’s body . . .

  No, this case wasn’t over for me. Staring down at the butcher knife, I knew it was just beginning.

  NINE

  When I came to the store the next morning I took out my key, then realized I didn’t need it. In the first place, Kit was already inside, at her desk. In the second place, the smashed lock hadn’t been repaired yet. I stared at the jagged glass around the frame, near the doorknob. It was a messy job. Somebody had been in an awful hurry, or somebody had been very clumsy. Or both.

  I walked in. “Good morning, Kit,” I said. “Sleep well?”

  She just looked at me and flushed. She didn’t blush. Instead she had the kind of blonde complexion that flushes.

  I wondered what embarrassed her, then realized the reason as she hastily shoved the morning paper under the desk and out of sight.

  “That’s all right,” I said. “Here, let me take a look.”

  Kit watched me as I read. I wasn’t bothered by the headlines—I’d expected them. SECOND RIPPER KILLING would naturally provoke such stories. I read a little about Joan Schuyler; later I wanted to read it all, but right now I was interested in the lesser details. I wanted to read if they’d found Calgary yet.

  They hadn’t. At least, there was no report. And I was pretty certain they’d call me downtown if and when they had him.

  “Here’s the mail.” Kit handed me the correspondence.

  I looked it over. All routine stuff, and I wasn’t in the mood.

  “Want me to take care of it, Tom?”

  I shook my head. “Later, maybe. Right now I’d like you to go over to Harry’s—you know where it is, down a couple of blocks—and see if he’ll come and fix that door. Need a new pane, I suppose, and a new lock.”

  “All right.” Kit stood up. “Mind if I stop for a cup of coffee on the way?”

  “Go ahead.” I tossed her a dollar. “Maybe you can bring back a cup for me. And some pie.”

  “Didn’t you eat breakfast yet?”


  I shook my head. “I started to go into Nick’s, but he saw me coming. And maybe I’m just a sensitive soul, but I didn’t like the way he looked at me.”

  Kit flushed again. She picked up her purse and walked out, and I was alone.

  Well, I might as well get used to it. Looked as though I’d be alone quite a bit of the time from now on. Art Hughes wouldn’t be coming around, and Kit would keep a desk between us. Even people like Nick didn’t want to see me.

  Nobody wanted to see me any more, except possibly the man who was just coming into the store now. And he couldn’t see me.

  “Hello, Bill,” I said.

  “Mr. Kendall! When I heard they’d let you out, I came right over.”

  “Here.” I walked over to him. “Let me get this chair for you.” He tap-tap-tapped his way over to it, and I steered him by the shoulders. He sat down heavily, and the sun from the window glared pitilessly into his face, into his eyes. But it didn’t matter.

  Bill’s face was big and battered, and something about his closed eyes made the rest of his features stand out in unnatural prominence. His nose and forehead were ridged and welted, and I wondered if he drank a lot or if he had some skin disturbance. I could ask him, of course, but there were other things I wanted to find out first.

  There was, it turned out, no need to ask. He told me.

  “Came right over,” he said, again. “Wasn’t far. We’re sort of neighbors, Mr. Kendall. You know where I live, right over Peck’s Grocery?”

  I nodded, then remembered he had no use for nods. The blind face searched for mine in the sunlight. “I had to apologize to you, Mr. Kendall. I made a bad mistake. If they wouldn’t have let you out, I was coming down to tell them about it anyway.”

  “Thanks, Bill,” I said. “I’d already figured it out, though.” And I told him about Calgary and the cleats, and why it was that he’d confused the two of us. “One other thing, though,” I said. “I walked past you at eleven with Trixie Fisher. But you told them downtown you only heard her footsteps. How could that be?”

  Blind Bill shrugged. His knotted knuckles moved over the shaft of his long black cane. “It’s the rhythm, Mr. Kendall. That’s what I recognize—the rhythm. Chances are, you were walking the way she walked. Feet coming down at the same time, and her heels making more noise than yours.” I caught myself starting to nod.