Marathon Man

by William Goldman

  Stop thinking about dying.

  But he couldn't help it. He stood in the chill air watching the lights in the lovely stores, Forsyth's and Lilywhite's, mainly pondering mortality, or, rather, the lack of it. His right hand throbbed, the stitches on fire. It was his own fault; he was closing his fists too frequently, rubbing his hands too often.

  Just because Robertson was late.

  If it had been anyone else, no cause for worry. But Robertson was legendary for his promptness. If you were in Beverly Hills and he called from Beirut saying, "Meet me Tuesday on Mount Everest, the north wall, halfway up, two thirty," well, you had better have one hell of an excuse if you got there at twenty of three.

  Look on the bright side--it might just mean that his -car got held up in traffic or a tire went flat. Logical, except Scylla could see the traffic on Princes, and it was moving smoothly, and more than that, if Robertson had gotten a flat, he wasn't the type to fix it--he'd just pull to the curb, hail a taxi, and arrive, as always, precisely when he said he would.

  There was no bright side.

  Robertson was late because he was dead. The question was, did he fall or was he pushed? God knows, with his history of heart disease, he could have toppled over anytime. Not only was he overweight, he smoked heavily and drank too much and ate only rich foods, so, logically, a stroke made sense.

  But strange things had been happening, most recently the business with Chen, so it was possible Robertson had died violently. Scylla hoped not. Even though theirs was strictly a business relationship and at least in part illicit, having nothing to do with Division and Scylla's regular work, he still hoped that Robertson had gone in his sleep, shortly after finishing his favorite meal of a double order of smoked salmon and an underdone entrecote steak on a plate with almost any vegetable, just so it was smothered in hollandaise, and an extra large portion of profiterole for dessert.

  Scylla hesitated. Robertson owed him money from their prior transaction, perhaps twenty thousand dollars, but Scylla knew he had been in Edinburgh too long already, he ought to get the hell out and on to Paris; these extra side trips up from London had to be quick, so Division wouldn't get particularly interested.

  To hell with it, Scylla thought as he started down the hill to the street, I'm going to see what happened, I just want to make sure he didn't suffer. Robertson ran the finest antique shop in Scotland, specializing in old jewelry, so perhaps that was why somebody got him. Greed. A plain and simple heist, and Robertson protested too vehemently and the thieves got panicky and started killing.

  Scylla liked Robertson. They had relatively little in common, and yet he felt a fondness for the fat old queer. Once, when he was making a delivery, Robertson's parents had arrived unexpectedly, and they all four went out to dinner, and Robertson immediately became much more subdued of speech, far less flamboyant with his gestures, and they dined at the Aperitif on Frederick Street, where a proper fuss was made, since Robertson was a steady and a heavy-tipping customer. And what was the main subject of conversation?

  Girls.

  It was all very sweet. His parents honestly did not know that their Jack was one of the major queens of western Europe. And Robertson carried it off so well, seeming to be genuinely depressed about his bachelor state, saying that no girl would have him, he was too fat and unattractive.

  Scylla had the taxi drive past Robertson's shop on Grassmarket. It was totally dark. No sign of life. The building next to it was empty, and to Scylla it all felt of death and decay. After one more block, he got out, paid the driver, walked back to Robertson's store, and stood across the street, watching. Nothing inside. No movement.

  Scylla crossed over and picked the front lock easily, the hooked blade of his knife having no trouble with the tumblers. Robertson lived in the rest of the house above the shop, and Scylla made his silent way to the stairs and up. Robertson's bedroom was on the third floor, and as Scylla reached it, the door was open enough for him to see the outline of the mammoth shape of the dead man sprawled' across the bed.

  Scylla entered the room, then stopped, stunned.

  Robertson was snoring. The fat bastard wasn't dead, he was asleep. Scylla flicked the bed lamp on and said "Jack--Jack?" and Robertson blinked his eyes in wild astonishment, staring, he could not stop staring, and Scylla realized, Jesus, all the time I thought he was dead, he thought I was dead, that's why he never came.

  Scylla sat rigidly in the chair by the bed lamp. "Why didn't you come, Jack?" he asked.

  "Our appointment was for tomorrow," Robertson answered grumpily.

  "You thought I was dead, didn't you?"

  "I can't answer something as silly as that now, can I?"

  "Why did you think I was dead?"

  Robertson pushed the sheet off his body. "Scylla, dear God, what is this gibberish?"

  "I can make you tell me things, Jack. Don't make me do that."

  Robertson sighed, threw back the covers. "If we're going to argue, at least let's do it in the kitchen, I'm hungry. I'll just get my robe," and he crossed to the closet.

  Scylla sat in silence by the bed lamp, his hands in his lap, his foot on the cord.

  Robertson put his robe on, and from the other side of the room said, very distinctly, "You will never, never threaten me again, is that clear enough?" There was a tiny pistol in his hand.

  Scylla made a sigh.

  "Answer me, goddamn you."

  "Jack, it's your life on the line now, you don't understand these games, don't say another word, please." "Just put up your hands."

  "Jesus, that's original."

  "I'll kill you."

  Scylla put up his hands.

  "Now you listen to me," Robertson said, standing across the room, a gigantic shadow. "You will never threaten me again, because what we've been doing, the stealing off the top, it's all written down--every transaction has been carefully annotated, and it's in a sealed envelope at my solicitors', and if I die it will be opened, and there are instructions as to who to give the information to., and I would think you would have considerable difficulty surviving once the news gets around."

  "You were stealing off the top long before I got involved."

  "Meaning?"

  "I just wondered if that was all written down at your solicitors' too."

  "Yes. Everything."

  Scylla shook his head. "None of it is. You're a secret fellow, Jack. Your fine parents don't know about your proclivities, and I think you enjoy living in shadows, and I don't think you'd ever tell anybody anything, much less write it down."

  "You want me to kill you?"

  Scylla shook his head. "You've got it wrong, Jack; it's you that has to die."

  "Keep your hands up--"

  "Certainly, but hear me now, Jack, a moment ago, when I said 'Please don't say any more,' I meant that--if you'd stopped then, if only you had, it might have been all right, but now, you see, I have no choice, because if I don't kill you you'll know that Scylla can be threatened, and threatened successfully, and once you know that, well, you'll have the better of me, won't you, you'll be able to do what you want with me, and no one must ever be allowed that power."

  "How can you threaten me? I've got the gun--"

  "Because I'm invisible," Scylla said, kicking at the light cord. The room went black.

  Robertson fired at the chair. A little popping sound. Then silence.

  "Scylla?"

  Nothing.

  "I know you're alive--your body didn't fall."

  "No fooling you, Jack, is there?" From another part of the room.

  Robertson fired again. Another popping sound. "You haven't got a chance," Robertson said.

  Another silence.

  "Poor me." From another part of the room.

  "I'll say I caught you robbing the shop."

  "Listen to the panic in your voice, Jack."

  "Don't move!"

  "I already have."

  "Stop."

  "I already have." Scylla crouched easily along a
side wall.

  "Don't you see--you can't win--I've got the gun--"

  "And I've my hands, Jack." Whispered.

  "Scylla--listen--"

  More whispering. "Don't fire again... drop it when I say so... if you fire again, you better hit me... because if you miss, I promise you you'll die for hours..."

  "It's not written down--you were right--let me give you your money--"

  "We can't go back--if I let you live, you will write it down--there's no trust, not any more, so all it comes to is, how do you want to die?"

  "I don't want to die, Scylla."

  "Well, you must. But it can be painless."

  "I was sorry when I found out you were dead--truly, Scylla, I like you, so do my parents, they never fail to ask after you."

  "Lovely people. Tell me what you know, Jack."

  "Nothing. I just got a call from Paraguay saying I would be given a new courier. I had to assume you were dead."

  "Of course. I'm coming for you, Jack. Drop it, now!" The gun hit the floor.

  "Good boy, Jack; now go to bed."

  "No pain. You said."

  "Lie down."

  The sound of the mattress compressing.

  "Do you want it to look like a suicide? You could write a note explaining, worry about your heart, about becoming a burden. You could tell your parents how much you cared for them."

  "I'd like that, Scylla."

  Scylla plugged the lamp back in, took out his handkerchief, picked up the gun. "Where's your note paper, in the desk?"

  Robertson nodded.

  Scylla brought him pad and pen. "Be as personal as you want, Jack. I think it would mean a great deal to them."

  Robertson wrote the note while Scylla waited patiently. When Robertson was done, Scylla glanced at it "You're a good man. Jack; they'll remember you warmly. Qose your eyes."

  Robertson closed his eyes.

  Scylla was amazed that he had trouble pulling the trigger. It had nothing to do with the fact that the wildly fired bullets imbedded in the walls would make suicide, at the very best suspect. It was simply that his physical work lately had either been in self-defense or brought on by strong emotion, but this, this now, was the core of the job, the meat-and-potatoes part and if that started getting difficult...

  Scylla aimed the pistol at the temple, could not squeeze.

  "Tell me about your lunch today, Jack," He could not squeeze the trigger.

  "Why?"

  "Because... I want you thinking of food, of profiterole and vintage port, because... these last years would have been miserable for you... another stroke lurking round the corner and then nothing to eat beyond celery, so I want you to know... I'm doing you a favor, aren't I, Jack..."

  "For God's sake, Scylla, you promised no pain!"

  Scylla fired hitting the temple in the proper spot. He placed the pistol carefully in Robertson's hand, let the hand fall naturally.

  "Be there soon. Jack," Scylla said.

  It was true, it was true. Scylla sat staring at the body. I'm just like you. Jack, except you're prone.

  I'm dead, but I won't lie down.

  7

  Babe sat in his corner of the library--he really thought of it as "his" corner, "his"' table, and always resented it when anyone else was planted on the farthest-from-the-door-in-the-left-hand-corner chair. He sat hunched over, punchy, all because of the Italians--the goddamn Italians were ruining him. Their names were driving him maaaaaaad.

  Most people fretted over Russian names, and sure, they had a point, it wouldn't be fun going through life having to spell Feodor Mikhailovich Dostoievsky every hour on the hour. But at least there was only one of him. You said "Dostoievsky," everybody knew you meant the guy who wrote those biggies.

  But when you mentioned a Medici, did you mean Lorenzo or Cosimo (1) or Cosimo (2)? And which Bellini, Gentile or Giovanni or Jacopo? Not to mention the Pollaiuolo boys. Antonio and Piero. And who but a fiend could have come up with not just Fra Filippo Lippi but also Filippino Lippi? And all but the Medicis were painters or sculptors or architects.

  Babe leaned back in despair. I'll never get it, he thought. I'll just be a second-rater, that's what they'll put on my tombstone, "Here lies T. B. Levy, he couldn't even get the Italians." Maybe he wasn't cut out to be a good social historian. It was a bitch, knowing everything, but then his father had, and Biesenthal managed it, so it wasn't impossible, just no breeze.

  You'll never beat Nurmi if you think this way, either --that was a task, running the marathon, and so was this, a task, that's all it was, and just as you had to sometimes force your body, the same held with your brain. Levy grabbed one of the art books he had sprawled all around the table and opened it to some stuff by the Pollaiuolos. Okay, he told himself, look at the work, what does it tell you? Antonio did things one way, Piero another. They were human, they had their quirks, just like thee and me. So find the man behind the canvas. The old bean's all you've got, so use it. Think. Logic.

  Then she walked into the library, and logic went right down the tubes, out the window, vanished, kaput, gone.

  From his spot in the corner, Levy went into his gaping act. Short blonde hair around startling blue eyes, all of it packaged in a shiny black raincoat. It was to die over. My God, Levy wondered, still staring across the room, what must those eyes be like close up? Better: What must they be like if they were close and cared for you?

  Quit the self-torture--back to the Pollaiuolos. Levy closed his eyes and tried to concentrate first on Antonio, then Piero, separating them ever so slightly, ferreting out little key differences that might aid him in his... in his...

  Forget it, Levy decided, opening his eyes again so he could peek some more at the girl.

  She was kind of glancing around the room now, arms full of books, obviously looking for a table. Right here, Levy wanted to shout; near me. It was the logical place for her. He was alone, there were seats for six, so lots of space available, room to stretch out in, only even as he outlined the virtues of his spot in the corner of the enormous study room, he knew in his heart it wasn't about to happen.

  Beauty had a way of avoiding him.

  It was true. His class at Denison was universally admitted to be the homeliest in the college's history. And try finding a lovely Rhodes Scholar sometime. It was his fate, he knew, to fall in love with Venuses and marry a plugger with a face like a foot.

  The truth was, girls were a problem. Not that he didn't adore them on general principles. It was just this: No girl he had ever cared for had given him a tumble, and none of those who wanted him could he ever convince himself to crave equally in return. Every girl who came after him was all the time so smart; there wasn't a Phi Bete at college who didn't eye him at least once during his undergraduate days. And he dated a lot, was intimate with a few, but they bored him. Just because they were smart and he was smart, they always assumed he wanted intellectual conversation. And he hated it. Give him a waitress with a C cup and a sweet soul and probably he would have settled, and gladly. But it never worked out. It never had and it never would--omigod, Levy thought, she's walking in this direction.

  He quick picked up a book and flipped it open, and if she did sit at his table, what would he do? Just play it cool, that was the only way. When they're gorgeous, they're used to all the approaches, so let her approach you. Just bide your time and wait, and when she asks to borrow your eraser, just maybe casually slide it over to her, but don't let her think you're impressed, because the glamor girls were used to impressing everybody, and once they've got you they give you the heave, orange peel, that's all you are to them, and Jesus, Levy, you don't have an eraser!

  Well, he just had to get one or it was all over, so he stood and looked around the room. The girl Riordan was studying on the far side, and she was the type that always had erasers, so he started toward her, knowing that she was going to think he was trying to start something serious with her. That was the way the homely ones always felt about him. If he said, "Pardon me, coul
d you lend me a sheet of scratch paper," they always thought he was practically proposing. Still, it was worth it, because now he would be away from the table, so he wouldn't feel unhappy when the Vision sat elsewhere.

  "Hi, excuse me," he said to the girl Riordan. "I'm the guy sat behind you in the Biesenthal seminar, and I wondered, could I borrow an eraser, please?"

  She smiled at him. Wedding rings danced behind her eyes; Levy could see them sparkling. "What kind?" she inquired. "Ink? Pencil? Art gum?"

  "Just your ordinary everyday eraser would be fine, thanks."

  "Faber Eraser Stik's my favorite," she said, handing it to him. "You can keep it. I've got others galore." What kind of a human person has a favorite eraser? Levy pondered. The size of the disclosure shook him, because someday this creature would be head of the department, probably at Bryn Mawr, and she'd mark down some student from an A to a B because the student liked a Dixon Ticonderoga over a Faber Eraser Stik when it came to neatening up smears. "Thanks, I really appreciate it," Levy said, and he turned.

  And there she was. Seated. Reading. Alone. At his very own corner table. The blue-eyed wonder.

  Clutching his Faber, Levy moved in a very businesslike manner back to his seat, sat down efficiently, picked up a book, opened it, and without even giving her a glance began to study. He was at one of a line of three chairs; she was across from him, on the far end of a similar line. Levy stared at his book intently until a movement of hers caught his eye, and he quickly looked over. Nuts, he thought as he saw her taking notes with a yellow pencil; she's got her own eraser. He went back to his book and waited, because he wanted a look at her face without her being aware, so when she was deeply involved in her book, when she'd turned six or eight pages, he moved his eyes toward hers.

  She was, there was simply no room for argument, something. Probably she wasn't beautiful. Garbo was beautiful, maybe Candice Bergen might be someday. This one here was only pretty. Pretty like Jeanne Crain or Katherine Ross, no more than that. Perfectly pretty was all. This one--