There was only one thing to do: the Doctor hastily wiped his hands on a towel, opened the bathroom door with a clean corner of the towel, threw it back onto the bath stool, and ran downstairs, barefoot, light as a cat. The cellar door was in a corner of the entrance hall, under the stairs. He knew just where the cut-off was. He had reason to: he had been pottering about down there for some time past—trying to scrape out a bin for wine, he had told Hermione. He pushed open the cellar door, went down the steep steps, and just before the closing door plunged the cellar into pitch darkness, he put his hand on the tap and turned it on. Then he felt his way back along the grimy wall till he came to the steps. He was about to ascend them when the bell rang.
The Doctor was scarcely aware of the ringing as a sound. It was like a spike of iron pushed slowly up through his stomach. It went on until it reached his brain. Then something broke. He threw himself down in the coal dust on the floor and said, “I’m through. I’m through.”
“They’ve got no right to come. Fools!” he said. Then he heard himself panting. “None of this,” he said to himself. “None of this.”
He began to revive. He got to his feet, and when the bell rang again the sound passed through him almost painlessly. “Let them go away,” he said. Then he heard the front door open. He said, “I don’t care.” His shoulder came up, like that of a boxer, to shield his face. “I give up,” he said.
He heard people calling. “Herbert!” “Hermione!” It was the Wallingfords. “Damn them! They come butting in. People anxious to get off. All naked! And blood and coal dust! I’m done! I’m through! I can’t do it.”
“Herbert!”
“Hermione!”
“Where the dickens can they be?”
“The car’s there.”
“Maybe they’ve popped round to Mrs. Liddell’s.”
“We must see them.”
“Or to the shops, maybe. Something at the last minute.”
“Not Hermione. I say, listen! Isn’t that someone having a bath? Shall I shout? What about whanging on the door?”
“Sh-h-h! Don’t. It might not be tactful.”
“No harm in a shout.”
“Look, dear. Let’s come in on our way back. Hermione said they wouldn’t be leaving before seven. They’re dining on the way, in Salisbury.”
“Think so? All right. Only I want a last drink with old Herbert. He’d be hurt.”
“Let’s hurry. We can be back by half past six.”
The Doctor heard them walk out and the front door close quietly behind them. He thought, “Half past six. I can do it.”
He crossed the hall, sprang the latch of the front door, went upstairs, and taking his instruments from the washbasin, finished what he had to do. He came down again, clad in his bath gown, carrying parcel after parcel of towelling or newspaper neatly secured with safety pins. These he packed carefully into the narrow, deep hole he had made in the corner of the cellar, shovelled in the soil, spread coal dust over all, satisfied himself that everything was in order, and went upstairs again. He then thoroughly cleansed the bath, and himself, and the bath again, dressed, and took his wife’s clothing and his bath gown to the incinerator.
One or two more little touches and everything was in order. It was only quarter past six. The Wallingfords were always late; he had only to get into the car and drive off. It was a pity he couldn’t wait till after dusk, but he could make a detour to avoid passing through the main street, and even if he was seen driving alone, people would only think Hermione had gone on ahead for some reason and they would forget about it.
Still, he was glad when he had finally got away, entirely unobserved, on the open road, driving into the gathering dusk. He had to drive very carefully; he found himself unable to judge distances, his reactions were abnormally delayed, but that was a detail. When it was quite dark he allowed himself to stop the car on the top of the downs, in order to think.
The stars were superb. He could see the lights of one or two little towns far away on the plain below him. He was exultant. Everything that was to follow was perfectly simple. Marion was waiting in Chicago. She already believed him to be a widower. The lecture people could be put off with a word. He had nothing to do but establish himself in some thriving out-of-the-way town in America and he was safe forever. There were Hermione’s clothes, of course, in the suitcases: they could be disposed of through the porthole. Thank heaven she wrote her letters on the typewriter—a little thing like handwriting might have prevented everything. “But there you are,” he said. “She was up-to-date, efficient all along the line. Managed everything. Managed herself to death, damn her!”
“There’s no reason to get excited,” he thought. “I’ll write a few letters for her, then fewer and fewer. Write myself—always expecting to get back, never quite able to. Keep the house one year, then another, then another; they’ll get used to it. Might even come back alone in a year or two and clear it up properly. Nothing easier. But not for Christmas!” He started up the engine and was off.
In New York he felt free at last, really free. He was safe. He could look back with pleasure—at least after a meal, lighting his cigarette, he could look back with a sort of pleasure—to the minute he had passed in the cellar listening to the bell, the door, and the voices. He could look forward to Marion.
As he strolled through the lobby of his hotel, the clerk, smiling, held up letters for him. It was the first batch from England. Well, what did that matter? It would be fun dashing off the typewritten sheets in Hermione’s downright style, signing them with her squiggle, telling everyone what a success his first lecture had been, how thrilled he was with America but how certainly she’d bring him back for Christmas. Doubts could creep in later.
He glanced over the letters. Most were for Hermione. From the Sinclairs, the Wallingfords, the vicar, and a business letter from Holt & Sons, Builders and Decorators.
He stood in the lounge, people brushing by him. He opened the letters with his thumb, reading here and there, smiling. They all seemed very confident he would be back for Christmas. They relied on Hermione. “That’s where they make their big mistake,” said the Doctor, who had taken to American phrases. The builders’ letter he kept to the last. Some bill, probably. It was:
Dear Madam,
We are in receipt of your kind acceptance of estimate as below and also of key.
We beg to repeat you may have every confidence in same being ready in ample time for Christmas present as stated. We are setting men to work this week.
We are, Madam,
Yours faithfully,
Paul Holt & Sons
To excavating, building up, suitably lining one sunken wine bin in cellar as indicated, using best materials, making good, etc.
….....£18/0/0
TWELVE NOVELS OF CRIME AND CHRISTMAS TO GET YOU THROUGH THE SEASON:
Tied Up In Tinsel by Ngaio Marsh (1971) in which Inspector Roderick Alleyn and his wife Agatha Troy tackle the death of an unpopular servant who disappears after playing Santa Claus.
Red Christmas by Patrick Ruell (1972) in which Murder disrupts a ‘Dickensian’ Christmas weekend for vacationers at a secluded Victorian inn.
Spence and the Holiday Murders by Michael Allen (1977) in which a rich, young bachelor is blown up in the driveway of his South Coast England home two days before Christmas.
The Gooseberry Fool by James McClure (1974) in which South African police Lt. Tromp Kramer and his Bantu assistant Sgt. Mickey Zondi investigate the death of a government engineer during a Christmas heat wave.
A Corpse for Christmas (Homicide at Yuletide) by Henry Kane (1951) in which hard-boiled private eye Peter Chambers gets involved with a scientist who is supposed to be dead and some ladies who are trying to accommodate him.
The Finishing Stroke by Ellery Queen (1958) in which an unidentified body turns up in the library of a publisher’s estate during a twelve day Christmas party.
An English Murder by Cecil Hare (1951) in which membe
rs of an English Christmas party are snowbound in a castle with a murderer.
Hercule Poirot’s Christmas (Murder for Christmas) by Agatha Christie (1938) in which the famous Belgian sleuth investigates the Christmas Eve slaying of a wealthy old financier with a lot of unhappy relatives.
No Holiday for Murder by Dell Shannon (1973) in which Det. Lt. Luis Mendoza finds his Christmas duty preoccupied with the strange death of a devout Mormon at Los Angeles International Airport.
Rest You Merry by Charlotte MacLeod (1973) in which college professor Peter Shandy finds the body of the assistant college librarian beneath his Christmas tree.
Sadie When She Died by Ed McBain (1972) in which 87th Precinct Det. Steve Carella solves the case of an adulterous wife who appears to be the victim of a local junkie-burglar. The truth arrives as a Christmas gift.
The Christmas Card Murders by David William Meredith (1951) in which four people in a small New Jersey town get identical Christmas cards telling them that they will not live to see the new year.
Mr. Big - Woody Allen
If the American cinema found a voice for the 1970’s, it was that of Woody Allen, the writer-actor-director whose films came into their own during that fragmented decade. Neurotic, crowded, abused, but still surviving, Allen’s self-absorbed characters trudged through these disappointing years in a fashion to which almost everyone could relate.
In his first collection of satirical writings, Getting Even, he included this send-up of the hard-boiled private eye, popularized by Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler. Unlike many who have tried to parody this style, Allen gives strong evidence of knowing what he is sending up.
There is no Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe Christmas story. On the West Coast, Christmas looks pretty much like any other day, only with less traffic. So, in the absence of these quintessential private eyes, we have the tribulations of — hang on to your trenchcoats — Kaiser Lupowitz as he encounters ‘Mr. Big.’
I was sitting in my office, cleaning the debris out of my thirty-eight and wondering where my next case was coming from. I like being a private eye, and even though once in a while I’ve had my gums massaged with an automobile jack, the sweet smell of greenbacks makes it all worth it. Not to mention the dames, which are a minor preoccupation of mine that I rank just ahead of breathing. That’s why, when the door to my office swung open and a long-haired blonde named Heather Butkiss came striding in and told me she was a nudie model and needed my help, my salivary glands shifted into third. She wore a short skirt and a tight sweater and her figure described a set of parabolas that could cause cardiac arrest in a yak.
“What can I do for you, sugar?”
“I want you to find someone for me.”
“Missing person? Have you tried the police?”
“Not exactly, Mr. Lupowitz.”
“Call me Kaiser, sugar. All right, so what’s the scam?”
“God.”
“God?”
“That’s right, God. The Creator, the Underlying Principle, the First Cause of Things, the All Encompassing. I want you to find Him for me.”
I’ve had some fruit cakes up in the office before, but when they’re built like she was, you listened.
“Why?”
“That’s my business, Kaiser. You just find Him.”
“I’m sorry, sugar. You got the wrong boy.”
“But why?”
“Unless I know all the facts,” I said, rising.
“O.K., O.K.,” she said, biting her lower lip. She straightened the seam of her stocking, which was strictly for my benefit, but I wasn’t buying any at the moment.
“Let’s have it on the line, sugar.”
“Well, the truth is—I’m not really a nudie model.”
“No?”
“No. My name is not Heather Butkiss, either. It’s Claire Rosensweig and I’m a student at Vassar. Philosophy major. History of Western Thought and all that. I have a paper due January. On Western religion. All the other kids in the course will hand in speculative papers. But I want to know. Professor Grebanier said if anyone finds out for sure, they’re a cinch to pass the course. And my dad’s promised me a Mercedes if I get straight A’s.”
I opened a deck of Luckies and a pack of gum and had one of each. Her story was beginning to interest me. Spoiled coed. High IQ and a body I wanted to know better.
“What does God look like?”
“I’ve never seen him.”
“Well, how do you know He exists?”
“That’s for you to find out.”
“Oh, great. Then you don’t know what he looks like? Or where to begin looking?”
“No. Not really. Although I suspect he’s everywhere. In the air, in every flower, in you and I—and in this chair.”
“Uh huh.” So she was a pantheist. I made a mental note of it and said I’d give her case a try—for a hundred bucks a day, expenses, and a dinner date. She smiled and okayed the deal. We rode down in the elevator together. Outside it was getting dark. Maybe God did exist and maybe He didn’t, but somewhere in that city there were sure a lot of guys who were going to try and keep me from finding out.
My first lead was Rabbi Itzhak Wiseman, a local cleric who owed me a favor for finding out who was rubbing pork on his hat. I knew something was wrong when I spoke to him because he was scared. Real scared.
“Of course there’s a you-know-what, but I’m not even allowed to say His name or He’ll strike me dead, which I could never understand why someone is so touchy about having his name said.”
“You ever see Him?”
“Me? Are you kidding? I’m lucky I get to see my grandchildren.”
“Then how do you know He exists?”
“How do I know? What kind of question is that? Could I get a suit like this for fourteen dollars if there was no one up there? Here, feel a gabardine—how can you doubt?”
“You got nothing more to go on?”
“Hey—what’s the Old Testament? Chopped liver? How do you think Moses got the Israelites out of Egypt? With a smile and a tap dance? Believe me, you don’t part the Red Sea with some gismo from Korvette’s. It takes power.”
“So he’s tough, eh?”
“Yes. Very tough. You’d think with all that success he’d be a lot sweeter.”
“How come you know so much?”
“Because we’re the chosen people. He takes best care of us of all His children, which I’d also like to someday discuss with Him.”
“What do you pay Him for being chosen?”
“Don’t ask.”
So that’s how it was. The Jews were into God for a lot. It was the old protection racket. Take care of them in return for a price. And from the way Rabbi Wiseman was talking, He soaked them plenty. I got into a cab and made it over to Danny’s Billiards on Tenth Avenue. The manager was a slimy little guy I didn’t like.
“Chicago Phil here?”
“Who wants to know?”
I grabbed him by the lapels and took some skin at the same time.
“What, punk?”
“In the back,” he said, with a change of attitude.
Chicago Phil. Forger, bank robber, strong-arm man, and avowed atheist.
“The guy never existed, Kaiser. This is the straight dope. It’s a big hype. There’s no Mr. Big. It’s a syndicate. Mostly Sicilian. It’s international. But there is no actual head. Except maybe the Pope.”
“I want to meet the Pope.”
“It can be arranged,” he said, winking.
“Does the name Claire Rosensweig mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“Heather Butkiss?”
“Oh, wait a minute. Sure. She’s that peroxide job with the bazooms from Radcliffe.”
“Radcliffe? She told me Vassar.”
“Well, she’s lying. She’s a teacher at Radcliffe. She was mixed up with a philosopher for a while.”
“Pantheist?”
“No. Empiricist, as I remember. Bad guy. Completely rejec
ted Hegel or any dialectical methodology.”
“One of those.”
“Yeah. He used to be a drummer with a jazz trio. Then he got hooked on Logical Positivism. When that didn’t work, he tried Pragmatism. Last I heard he stole a lot of money to take a course in Schopenhauer at Columbia. The mob would like to find him—or get their hands on his textbooks so they can resell them.”
“Thanks, Phil.”
“Take it from me, Kaiser. There’s no one out there. It’s a void. I couldn’t pass all those bad checks or screw society the way I do if for one second I was able to recognize any authentic sense of Being. The universe is strictly phenomenological. Nothing’s eternal. It’s all meaningless.”
“Who won the fifth at Aqueduct?”
“Santa Baby.”
I had a beer at O’Rourke’s and tried to add it all up, but it made no sense at all. Socrates was a suicide—or so they said. Christ was murdered. Nietzsche went nuts. If there was someone out there, He sure as hell didn’t want anybody to know it. And why was Claire Rosensweig lying about Vassar? Could Descartes have been right? Was the universe dualistic? Or did Kant hit it on the head when he postulated the existence of God on moral grounds?
That night I had dinner with Claire. Ten minutes after the check came, we were in the sack and, brother, you can have your Western thought. She went through the kind of gymnastics that would have won first prize in the Tia Juana Olympics. After, she lay on the pillow next to me, her long blond hair sprawling. Our naked bodies still intertwined. I was smoking and staring at the ceiling.
“Claire, what if Kierkegaard’s right?”
“You mean?”
“If you can never really know. Only have faith.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Don’t be so rational.”
“Nobody’s being rational, Kaiser.” She lit a cigarette. “Just don’t get ontological. Not now. I couldn’t bear it if you were ontological with me.”
She was upset. I leaned over and kissed her, and the phone rang. She got it.
“It’s for you.”
The voice on the other end was Sergeant Reed of Homicide.
Thomas Godfrey (Ed) Page 2
