by Robert Bloch
“Yes,” I said. “I see—I mean, I can understand that.”
“Get up and walk now, Mr. Kendall,” Bill urged. “I want to check on something.”
I stood up and walked the length of the store, then returned.
“Sure,” said Bill. “There’s a difference. The man I told the police about is slower. Heavier, I’d say.”
“He’s big and fat.” I leaned over Bill. “You tell the police all you know?”
The cane hit the floor with a thump. “Of course I did! Why shouldn’t I? Those cops, if they wanted to, they could run me off the street. I got nothing to hide, Mr. Kendall.”
“I believe you. But you see, it’s important to me, Bill. I’m still under suspicion, in a way. I want to see this man Calgary caught and convicted. And you’re apparently the last person who saw—I mean, heard him. On the night of the murder.”
Bill shook his head slowly. The blind eyes blinked, the mouth smiled. “That wasn’t the last time, Mr. Kendall.”
“You mean you’ve heard him since then?”
“Sure. I was just going to tell you. I came from the District Attorney’s office right over here. Like I say, I play ball with the cops, and I told them first.”
“All right, let’s have it,” I said. “When was the last time you heard those footsteps?”
“Last night,” Bill said. “Last night, right after supper. I was standing on the corner just outside the park, near Wentworth. The cleats came past. The same rhythm.”
“You’re certain?”
“Positive. Of course, it took me a little while to figure it out. Don’t forget, I’d identified you and I knew you were locked up, and so at first when I heard the noise I just thought here’s another fellow who wears cleats. Then, when the extra came out about the second murder, I got to thinking. And I remembered the way you walked without any cleats. Faster. Then I recollected that the cleats I heard under Trixie’s window were slow—and so were the ones I heard last night.”
I sighed. “Too bad,” I said. “When you heard him he was probably just on his way to Joan Schuyler. You might have saved her.”
“Maybe she wasn’t worth saving,” Blind Bill said.
“What do you mean by that?”
The cane thumped down. “Nothing.” He sighed. “Oh, hell, I guess I didn’t have any call to say that, did I? It’s just that—well, you don’t know what it is when a fellow’s blind. The way the little things get big, more important.” The cane thumped again, the knuckles moved. “Now take yourself, Mr. Kendall. You slip me a dime now and then, and that’s nice of you—but it’s not the most important thing. Most important thing is the way you always say hello. Every time you pass, you say hello.”
“I wish to God I’d remembered to say hello when I went by with Trixie,” I told him.
“Bet she was the one who wouldn’t let you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I was right, wasn’t I? I know. Because those kind never say hello. Not the hustlers. They’re too snooty to say hello to a beat-up blind bum.”
“You’re pretty bitter, aren’t you, Bill?”
He sighed. “Guess so. Only it’s been a long time since I got a hello from a woman—”
“Hello, Bill!”
He jumped when he heard that. But it was only Kit, returning. “The man will be down to fix the door right after lunch,” she said. “Here’s your coffee. I got apple pie.”
“Thanks,” I said. “My favorite.”
Blind Bill stood up. “Better move along,” he said.
“Here, let me help you,” I told him. “Watch out for that broken glass.”
“Somebody busted in on you, eh?”
I told him about the poniard. He nodded. “French weapon, isn’t it? Too short to swallow.”
“What’s that about swallowing?”
Bill grinned. “Didn’t you know? Before I got these cataracts, that’s what I used to do. Sword swallower in a carny outfit, sideshow.”
“Well, whoever stole my dagger didn’t intend to swallow it,” I said. I guided Bill over the threshold. “You’ll be sure and let the police know if you hear those footsteps again?”
“Right away,” Bill promised. He started to tap along the street, then turned his head. “I’m sorry about my mistake, Mr. Kendall. I’m glad you’re out, now.”
“Thanks. I’ll be seeing you.”
It came out before I could stop it, but he didn’t mind. He was used to it. He must have gotten used to a lot of things, hidden away in that eternally dark world in which he tapped along, groping his way to the grave.
Well, we were all blind, in a way—all groping our way to the grave. Trixie and Joan Schuyler had already made it. Who’d be the next one?
I went back into the store, trying to shake off the sudden depression. Perhaps the coffee would help. And I wanted to talk to Kit. But there wasn’t time for coffee, or Kit. The phone rang. I recognized the well-modulated voice.
“This is Anthony Mingo speaking.”
“Yes. Oh, about our appointment—I was going to call you. How about this afternoon some time?”
“I’d appreciate it if you could make it sooner. That’s why I called. I find I shall be out of the city for a day or so, and plan to leave after dinner. Could you possibly come down now?”
I hesitated. “Of course. Be right over.”
“Excellent. You’ll be able to close up without any difficulty?”
“Why should I close up? Kit’s here.”
A brief, hesitant silence. Then, “Yes, of course. I’d forgotten. I’ll expect you, then.”
“Right.”
I hung up. Kit opened the paper container and passed me the coffee. I shook my head. “No time. Got to go.”
“Don’t tell me that was the police again?”
“No. Just your ex-boyfriend. Mr. Mingo.” I put on my hat. “By the way, he seemed a little surprised to find out you were here. Did you tell him you were quitting?”
“No.” Mingo had been too slow and Kit was too fast. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Hard to say where my ideas are coming from these days.” I grinned. “See you at twelve, for lunch. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
“Yes,” she said, and tried to look pleased about it. I went out and started walking down the street, and the shadow moved after me.
TEN
The shadow walked quietly, slowly, pretending to be interested in the windows. Of course, going through the park, there were no windows. There were only curving paths.
I took advantage of that to loop back after rounding one curve, and stepped out of the bushes right in front of him. He was a small, sandy-haired shadow and he startled easily.
“Anything new from headquarters?” I asked.
“Now look, Mister—”
“Kendall’s the name. As if you didn’t know.” I smiled at him. “I’ll bet this isn’t any more fun for you than it is for me. So why don’t we cut out all the funny business and walk along together?”
“I’ve got my orders,” he said.
“That’s right. Lieutenant Cohen wants you to keep an eye on me, doesn’t he? He wants to know where I’m going. Well, right now I’m on my way to a lawyer. Anthony Mingo. And if you’ll just cooperate, you can park yourself in a big easy chair outside his private office instead of hanging around the lobby downstairs. Good deal?”
We walked along together, out of the park and down the street.
“How’s it coming?” I asked.
“Nothing new.”
“The Lieutenant still looking for Calgary?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Not even after that new tip Blind Bill brought in?”
His eyes flickered for a moment. “I—wouldn’t know.”
“What’s your name?” I asked. “Or wouldn’t you know that, either?”
“Flint.”
“I remember, now. Lieutenant Cohen mentioned your name at my apartment.”
; “I wouldn’t know.”
The needle was stuck again, so I left it there. We entered a lobby, took an elevator to the eighth floor. Flint eased into a chair, as I gave my name to the receptionist in the anteroom.
She smiled. “Go right in. Mr. Mingo expects you.”
I nodded and glanced over my shoulder. Flint was sitting there, his face half-hidden in a book. I hoped for his sake it was a memory course.
Then I walked down a long hall, opened a panelled door, and said hello to Anthony Mingo.
“Come in, my dear boy.” Today, sitting behind the desk, he was wearing a dove-gray suit, but in a room this size he looked more like a little boy than ever.
Everything in the room seemed enormous by way of contrast. The big desk, the huge bookcases, the voluminous drapes—all outsize. Even the weapons on the farther wall. Weapons.
Everywhere I went, the knives were following me. The poniard, the butcher knife; and Blind Bill had to be a former sword swallower. It was a conspiracy. It was also slightly ridiculous.
Or maybe I was just suddenly sensitive to the theme. I remember my old boss at the factory telling me what happened when he bought a house.
“Funny thing,” he said. “We decided to landscape the grounds, and the first thing you know, wherever I looked I saw fertilizer ads. I was reading the same papers and magazines I always read, and I’d never noticed one before. But now it seemed like they were all over. And everybody I knew seemed to be talking about fertilizer and lawns. It was all fertilizer.” Sure. It was all fertilizer. And so was this notion about being pursued by knives.
But the swords hung from the wall. There was a yataghan, a cutlass, a scimitar. All of them big weapons, of course. I stared at the cruel curves.
“Interesting, are they not?” Mr. Mingo stood up and minced over to my side. “Care to look around a bit?”
“Why not?” I replied. And why not? Silly to let my imagination run away with me—nobody’d pay the ransom. No sense in thinking as I did, that perhaps Blind Bill had swallowed my poniard, or Mr. Mingo had concealed it in the scabbard of a sabre, or Art Hughes might be afraid of knives because he’d just used one.
When the mind is troubled, it can take refuge in a book. So I looked at the bookshelves. The usual assortment of legal window dressing, plus. The plus interested me.
This was carrying coincidence—or fertilizer—too far. The shelf, right behind his desk, with its titles neatly arrayed: Barnard’s anthology, The Harlot Killer, plus The Lodger, plus The Mystery of Jack the Ripper, plus the books of Pearson and Roughead, and Dr. Wertham’s The Show of Violence. Yes, and here was another name I knew—Justine, by the Marquis de Sade. I knew I wouldn’t have to go much farther before coming across Krafft-Ebing. It might be this book here. No, this was the 1954 Scott catalogue. I was glad to see a friend at last.
“You a philatelist?” I asked.
“Formerly. That book is misplaced on the shelf.”
“You can say that again! Where did you amass such a library of crimes of violence?”
“Here and there, through the years. But sit down.”
I sat and waited for him to continue.
“After all, it’s quite natural that I should be interested in the more—bizarre, shall we say?—elements of my calling. I trust you’re not sensitive about such things.” The delicate mouth made a delicate moue.
“It doesn’t bother me. Only for a man who makes his living defending people you seem to spend a lot of time studying those who were convicted.”
“Accused? Convicted? You miss the point, Mr. Kendall. I am interested solely in the phenomenon of murder itself.”
I had heard that word many times during the past three days, and it had issued from a lot of mouths, including my own. But when those delicate little lips formed the syllables, something special happened. Suddenly, the room grew dimmer as though the echo of the word had summoned shadows. Murder often lurks in just such shadows.
For the first time I really got the feeling—the feeling of murder. Murder in the air, murder around me. And it wasn’t my imagination. Somewhere, some place in this city, there was a murderer. A silent man with a silent knife. He’d struck twice in two days, struck close to home. And that’s why the word bothered me now. Because it wasn’t just a word, something for me to read in books or newspapers. It was a personal threat.
I glanced around, half-expecting to see a shape emerge from the shadows. Nothing there, of course. But then, murder can hide anywhere. Sometimes it can even hide inside a person.
Little Mr. Mingo was watching me. Maybe he guessed my thoughts. Maybe he shared them. Whatever it was, he looked amused, as though he were chuckling over some private joke. From the looks of his library, I could imagine what kind of private jokes a man like Anthony Mingo might find amusing.
But I really didn’t have to guess, because he was telling me, now.
“. . . since you’re not unduly sensitive, I might mention that this affair has certain piquant aspects which intrigue me: the hired assassin, the barroom brawler, the enraged or outraged lover. Through the years I’ve seen so many that I must confess to a certain boredom. This instance is much more to my taste, I assure you.”
He didn’t have to assure me. I could see it in his face.
“I’ve often regretted that I was not born a generation earlier. Those were high times for the true aficionado of the crime of violence.”
“You’d have liked to be alive when the Ripper was around, I suppose?” My sarcasm was obvious.
“No, not precisely. Say five or ten years later. It’s a delicate point you raise and one worth considering, but on the whole I’d choose the nineties.” My sarcasm, apparently, hadn’t been obvious enough. Either that or his enthusiasm surpassed it. Because he went on with obvious relish. “Yes, the nineties. The Ripper would still be fresh in memory, with the delicious possibility of his imminent return. And meanwhile, one would be reading about Mr. Holmes. Not Sherlock, the fictional detective, but H. H. Holmes—the Chicago mass-murderer. You recall his story? The castle, the dungeon, the bodies of the women found in the torture chambers? And then there was Neil Cream and Dr. Crippen, of course, and—”
“Oh, for the good old days,” I said. “You sentimentalists are all alike.”
This time he couldn’t ignore my implications.
“Sorry,” he said. “I perceive that I’m boring you.”
“Not at all. It’s just that, as my lawyer, I’d expect you to be a little more interested in the present case. For example, what did you find out about Joan Schuyler that might help us?”
Mingo shrugged. It was a complete gesture, yet so delicately executed that it wouldn’t have dislodged a butterfly from his shoulder.
“The papers told the story,” he said. “Joan Schuyler ate supper at a cafeteria, alone. She came home and the janitor’s wife was out. Otherwise she would have received the message telling her to report at headquarters for questioning. She went to her room and apparently lay down for a nap. She locked her door but not her bedroom window. That was a bad mistake, Kendall. Her last.”
There won’t be many open windows in town today, I thought.
“The killer must have entered from the alleyway. He found her lying face downwards on the bed; they know that because the wounds indicate the striking angle. Perhaps she died after the first thrust—I understand they were very deep. But the killer didn’t stop then, Kendall. He went on. He turned her over, and he thrust again. And again. One can only surmise how long he might have continued or what he would have chosen to do next. But he was interrupted. The janitor’s wife came in and the door slam outside disturbed him. By the time she came down the hall and knocked, he was gone, leaving the album behind him.”
“That’s the part bothering me,” I said. “It’s such a stupid plant—so obvious.”
“Ah, but is it? Your deduction is logical, normal, to be expected. Undoubtedly the police feel the same way. But this killer is cunning. He may assume such a rea
ction, may even intend it.” Mingo turned and gestured toward the bookshelf. “Read the cases,” he said. “Your true artist in murder is skilled in subtlety.”
I tried to think about fat Joe Calgary being skilled in subtlety. I couldn’t make it. But a man like Anthony Mingo, now . . .
“That album,” I said, trying to read his painted-on eyes. “It seems like a pivotal factor to me. If only someone would show up and claim ownership—”
“My dear boy,” laughed Mr. Mingo. “Would you, if it were yours?”
I shook my head.
“Well,” he said. “Of course not.” Suddenly he sat up and his face sobered. “But there’s no point in discussing this matter any further. I had another and entirely different reason for calling you in.”
“If it’s your fee,” I said, “I guess I can take care of it. There’s some cash in the bank, and you’d be willing to take the rest in installments—”
A hand made a gossamer gesture and the fee disappeared. “Consider it paid,” Mingo told me. “As a courtesy to an old and very dear friend.”
“Kit?”
“Miss Munson has always meant a great deal to me,” he said. “And that, actually, is what I meant to discuss with you.”
I stood up. “You told her to quit, didn’t you?”
“Yes, of course I did.” He caught the look on my face, but he didn’t flinch. “Please, spare me the melodramatic rage. I advised her to resign and for a very good reason.”
“It had better be,” I said.
“She’s in danger. Serious danger.”
“From me? So you think I’m crazy too, do you—”
“My dear boy, no need to raise your voice. That isn’t my implication at all.”
“If not me, then who?”
“I wish I knew,” Mingo murmured. “And so do the police. Who killed Trixie Fisher and tried to implicate you? Who broke into your store, for the same purpose of implication? Someone, whoever he is, bears no good will toward you. And it’s quite likely he may try to strike again.”