There were others. Together they comprised an altar to an off-mix of self-loathing and pride. History presents us with a large and sometimes tragic gallery of clubfoots, just as it gives us a surprising number of overachieving epileptics. Wilton Hoxley had chosen to identify himself with the clubfoots, but he’d chosen the only one I knew of who had been a god.
Not looking for much of anything but not wanting to turn back to the collage on the opposite wall, I studied the little classical gallery again. Leading the pack were four images of Hephaestus’ expulsion from heaven, all of them featuring the glowering face of Hera. Hera alone figured in three others.
“Mother trouble,” Edna Vercini had said. Edna had never been a dope.
It wasn’t until I had turned my attention to the desk that I registered that the images above it were of different sizes. I backed off and surveyed it again. The pictures had been clipped from whatever sources he had found them in and pasted to the wall in any which way, big against small, with the tiny scraps from the illuminated manuscripts employed as fillers to block the glow of the red metallic paper beneath the images. If there had been an organizational principle, it seemed to be that the pictures followed the chronology of the Hephaestus myth, but they’d been assembled with no regard to size.
I wondered why that troubled me, and then I turned around and answered my own question.
The first thing I’d thought of when I looked at the other collage, the collage of fire, had been a crossword puzzle. At the time, I’d dismissed it as my mind’s way of distancing me from the content of the pictures, but from across the room I could see that the pictures were all the same size, exactly the same size. They formed a perfect square, about three feet by three feet. A square three feet by three feet covers nine square feet, and that’s a lot of area to cover when your squares are approximately three inches by three inches, which is the size of a Polaroid that’s had its bottom strip, the white strip that you grasp when you pull it from the camera, trimmed off.
Not wanting to do it, hating every step, I pulled myself back across the apartment to take a closer look at the other collage. I hadn ‘t seen police photographs of all the victims, but I’d forced myself to look at enough of them. In some cases, as with poor Helena Troy, I’d also seen photos of them before they were burned.
As nearly as I could tell, the Polaroids were in chronological order.
That meant one of two things. Either he’d glued down the other images first, leaving the careful pattern of empty squares for the Polaroids and filling them in as he took them, or he’d created the whole thing before he vacated the apartment as part of the statement he was trying to make. One way or the other, though, the square was full. No three-inch-squares of ruby gift-wrap paper gleamed at me from anywhere within it. There were no odd images pasted beyond the perimeter of the square. The square, as ghastly as it was, was a finished work.
Outside, I heard children playing and laughing. Children have a higher fat content, relative to total body weight, than do average adults, Nature’s way of storing food in the helpless in case they should be prematurely abandoned. It also ensures that they float. Of course, it also makes them more flammable.
I went back to the desk. Positioned carefully in its center was a volume of Dore’s etchings for The Divine Comedy. I’d always wondered what was comic about an epic packed chock-full of usurers up to their necks in manure and nepotistic popes being fricasseed head-down. When I closed the book and looked around, I realized that Wilton Hoxley had apparently found the laughs; above the door of the hallway that probably led to his bathroom were the words, hand-stenciled and a foot high, ABANDON HOPE, ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE. Getting up, I put what little hope I had on hold, went down the short hallway, and opened the bathroom door.
There was no window, and the room was dark. The light from the hallway barely dented the gloom. The air was heavy with a mixture of odors that made me instinctively want to hold my breath. The light switch flipped up with a rewarding snap, but nothing happened. I wished again that I still smoked; at least then I’d have had a match. Since I didn’t, I worked my way through the living room and into the minuscule kitchen, where I unscrewed the light bulb over the sink. Bulb in hand and feeling uncomfortably like a well-trained rat in a maze, I padded back to the bathroom.
There was an empty socket next to the bathroom mirror, and I wound the bulb into it. I’d left the light switch up, and I had to blink against the sudden glare.
Despite the dire warning, I’d seen worse bathrooms, my own, at times, among them. The toilet was stained and streaked and odorous, the tile was peeling away from the walls, the linoleum floor was as warped and rippling as the sea in a Hiroshige print. It wasn’t until I slid aside the shower curtain that the Dante quote made sense.
The tub was full of rags and metal containers. Each was labeled. A square of white paper had been glued to the side of each, and on the labels, penned in the same metallic gold ink in which he’d written my letters, were the words, GASOLINE, KEROSENE, BENZINE, DENATURED ALCOHOL. Fumes rolled out of the enclosure, heavy and ripe with fire. If I’d struck a match, I’d have been have been blown into memory.
After I closed the door and gave the keys back to the manager, I walked toward Alice, squinting into the bright summer sunlight of Normal Street and trying to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do.
15
Reverse Field
“He’s finished with something,” I said. “God knows what it is, but he’s reached a point of completion.”
The curtains in the suite in the Bel Air Hotel had been drawn, and the day had been locked outside. Annabelle Winston, draped in a white sheet, was a dim horizontal silhouette on a long table in the center of the room. A very tall woman, dressed entirely in white, compressed various of Annabelle’s muscles and stretched others, and a very short woman wearing more colors than a chemical bonfire sat on a footstool and pruned fingernails. Every time I heard her clippers snick together, the muscles in my back jumped and hunched.
“What’s the Eighth Dwarf doing here?” Annabelle Winston demanded, without turning to face us. She’d turned away when she saw Schultz. Schultz wasted an amber grin on her hair. “And what gives you the idea he’s finished?”
“For Christ’s sake, shut up,” I said. It got her attention. She even turned her head to face me.
“You don’t want to make that a habit,” she said. “Or is it our intention to get out of line?”
“You want your money back?”
“Can you get that, please?” She waved a hand at the phone. Two gold bracelets rattled against a Vacheron-Constantine watch, making a sound that Scrooge McDuck could have heard six blocks away.
“Oh, sure,” I said. I picked up the receiver and said, “Miss Winston will call you back. She’s being landscaped.” I hung up and pulled out the plug.
“Do I want the money back?” she said reflectively. “What would I do with it?”
“How would I know? Get your elbows pumiced.”
“Well,” she said, completely unruffled, “I think at this point that I’m entitled to know what I’m buying.” She withdrew a hand from the manicurist’s grasp, shifted beneath the sheet, and rested her chin on her hand. Deprived of a focal point, the manicurist gazed into the middle distance.
“At the moment, you’re buying Dr. Norbert Schultz,” I said. “Dr. Schultz. Miss Annabelle Winston.”
“We’ve met,” Annabelle Winston said, “and it hasn’t been an impressive experience.”
“Boy, oh boy,” Schultz said, “I’m sorry about that.”
“With all due respect,” Annabelle Winston said, “what I’m asking is why you’ve brought him here. And why in the world I should pay for him.”
“He’s here,” I said, “because I know who the Incinerator is and because I’ve been to his apartment—by his invitation—and because I don’t know what to do about it. Dr. Schultz is my alternative to a real cop.”
“And a real psychologis
t, too,” Annabelle Winston said. “Two alternatives for the price of one genuine item.” Then her eyes widened and she said “Cigarette” to the woman working on her back. “You saw him?” she demanded. “What do you mean, you saw him?”
“I didn’t say I’d seen him,” I said. “By which I mean I have seen him, but not recently.”
Annabelle Winston held up a slender hand, ignoring the fact that the sheet had slipped from her shoulder, and a cigarette was placed between her fingers. She never took her eyes off me. The manicurist, glad to have something to do, grabbed a lighter, and Annabelle Winston inhaled. Schultz, following her movements as though from a great distance, took out a new pack of Dunhills and pried one loose. The two of them lit up almost simultaneously, from opposite ends of the room.
“I told you,” Annabelle Winston said, looking away from me and seeing him exhale, but she didn’t finish her sentence. Schultz gave her a broad holiday smile and pointed his cigarette at the one in her own hand.
“So get cancer, Doctor,” she said dismissively. “But my question still stands. Or, rather, questions. What do you mean, you’ve seen him but you haven’t seen him? What do you mean, you know who he is?”
“Wait a minute,” I said, feeling as though everything was moving too fast for me.
“Fine,” Annabelle Winston said. “I’ll get dressed.” The manicurist and the masseuse were tipped and dismissed, and Annabelle Winston exited the room wrapped demurely in the sheet and reentered seconds later in the inevitable silk. Then the two of them, Schultz and Annabelle Winston, smoked furiously while I told them about Wilton Hoxley and explained my reasoning about the crossword puzzle in the Incinerator’s apartment, and Schultz said, “Hmmm,” several times in the best psychologist’s manner. By the time I was finished, I had swallowed two of Annabelle’s cigarettes in an effort to keep myself awake, and Schultz had seated himself uncomfortably on the corner of a fake Empire desk, his feet dangling. His feet, I saw with some dismay, were clad in a pair of white patent-leather loafers of the type affected by retired Beverly Hills gentlemen who may once have had something to do with show business.
“Did he change his name legally?” Schultz snapped authoritatively. It was a new tone from him, at least in Annabelle Winston’s presence.
“That’s an interesting question,” I said, trying to blink the fatigue away, “and I don’t know the answer to it.”
“Why’s it so interesting?” Annabelle Winston asked.
“Because he’d have to give a permanent address,” Schultz said. “A name change takes a while.”
“My father’s name change took months,” Annabelle Winston said.
“Months,” Schultz said, working at not gloating. “In California, it can take years. Remember H. L. Mencken. The continent slopes down to the west, and everything that’s loose eventually rolls to California. We’re careful about name changes.”
“Can you check it for me?” I asked Schultz.
“Without the cops knowing?”
“That depends,” I said, “on what we come up with. And on what happens after we come up with it.”
“Only the first name?” Schultz said, pulling out a pad. “He keep Hoxley, or did he change both of them?”
“He changed the first to Festus,” I said again, “or maybe Hephaestus, I don’t know. He kept Hoxley. He’s Hoxley in the phone book,”
“Hah,” Schultz said.
“Why ‘hah’?” Annabelle Winston asked Schultz, in spite of herself.
“Hephaestus. Blacksmith of the gods,” Schultz said happily. “Keeper of the flame, et cetera. Not a name, I’d say, chosen at random.”
“I’m still not exactly sure that I care what you’d say,” Annabelle Winston said, presumably to make up for her lapse.
“Listen,” I said. “Maybe I should try Esperanto. We need help. This guy is playing me like a fish, letting me out and then reeling me in again whenever he feels like it. He’s a trickster. Dr. Schultz is a psychologist who specializes in people who murder for fun. I’ve got a promise of legal secrecy from him because I’m his patient. You’re paying his hourly rate. Whatever you think about his nicotine addiction, he’s on our side now.”
I picked up another of Annabelle Winston’s cigarettes and flicked her 24-karat Bic. “Since the police double-crossed me, I’ve played it Hoxley’s way,” I said. “I went on TV. I did my best to make him sound like the greatest genius since Giotto. I delivered a heartfelt message. In response, he booby-trapped my house. I’ve been playing by his rules, and all I’ve gotten is an eighty-octane mattress. So what am I supposed to do now?”
“Who’s this girl you’re protecting?” Annabelle Winston asked.
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
Annabelle Winston shrugged an economical quarter-inch. “Just asking.”
“Not relevant,” I said. “Here’s what’s relevant. Once I figured out who he is, I went to a place he’d already guessed I’d go and found out he’d left a message for me. The message directed me to his apartment, where I found some stuff that seems to say he’s finished.”
“People like this don’t just fold their tents and get a job selling shoes,” Annabelle Winston said.
“The Zodiac quit,” Schultz said. “Emil Kemper quit. They fulfilled their mission, whatever it was, and just stopped. We never would have caught Kemper if he hadn’t phoned in a confession and waited in the phone booth until the police arrived.”
“Mission?” I asked.
“In the classic sense of the word,” Schultz said, billowing smoke. “These people have a mission. God speaks to them. Angels sit on their shoulders to help them pick out the next one. When the score is even, whatever score, they quit.” He was gaining confidence from the sound of his own voice. “Who knows what the score is? One life for every slap they suffered as a kid. One for every man their mother slept with while the kid listened through the wall. One for every book in the Old Testament. You mean, what’s the math? We’re talking about people who see patterns in the way leaves cluster on trees. He could be killing one person for every stop sign he passed walking home from sixth grade.”
“But you don’t believe that,” I said.
Schultz licked his thumb and applied saliva to a tear in his cigarette. “No,” he said, “I don’t. I think it has something to do with his mother and father. Jesus, look at the Hephaestus bit.” He grasped the cigarette between thumb and forefinger, looking like an imitation Russian in a B-movie of the forties, and puffed. “Born lame, booted out of heaven by his own mother. Now that he’s killing both women and men,” he said, “I think we were right before. I think this is sexual, and sexual means Mommy.” He gave all of us the dubious benefit of the amber smile. “So why did he guide you to the apartment?”
“Because he’s playing with me,” I said slowly, feeling the atmosphere of the room gather around me and weigh me down. “Because he knows he can jerk me around. I think the real question is what he wants me to do about it.”
“You’ve got his name,” Schultz said. “That means that DMV could give us the plate on that Mazda.”
“You can get it,” I said. “Give it to the cops, I don’t care. If they get him, great, but they won’t. I’m betting that he’s finished with the Mazda, too. Let me know if they find it, but I think he’s finished with it, just as he is with the apartment. Hell, put the cops on the name change, too, if you think it’ll help. Just keep them away from me. I’ve got to figure out whether to do what he wants me to do.”
“Maybe he’s not finished,” Schultz said.
“Back off, Doctor,” Annabelle Winston said. “You just heard Simeon say that the puzzle was complete.”
“That puzzle,” Schultz said. “That apartment. How do we know he doesn’t have another puzzle, and another apartment? Maybe he’s got another mission, too.”
We all listened to the words hitting the carpet.
“And what does he want you to do?” Schultz said. “Put yourself in his plac
e.”
“I don’t know. To make him famous, I guess.”
Schultz nodded and lighted another Dunhill. “And what doesn’t he want you to do?” Schultz asked around a cumulus cloud of smoke.
“I don’t know that either.” I closed my eyes so tightly that I could see little red dots, blood vessels rupturing in the retina. “To get closer, I guess. He figures he can control how close I get.”
“Right,” Schultz said. “And how do you get closer?”
I was all grit, a cement mixer filled with dry sand and gravel. “Mommy, I suppose,” I said. “But that means he’s going to come for me.”
Annabelle Winston started to say something and thought better of it.
“Right,” Schultz said again. “You get to Mommy, he’s going to come for you. But he’s only going to come for you if you’re clear of the cops.” He sighed. “No publicity on the apartment.” He rubbed his face. “So what you do, you reverse field. Stop doing what he wants. Do what he doesn’t want. I’ll keep the cops away from you, and you go talk to Mommy, if you can find her. Are you ready for that?”
I nodded. It was easier than talking. I wasn’t certain I could make my jaws work. I’d just discovered that it was possible to feel sad, weary, and panicked simultaneously.
“He’s not bait,” Annabelle Winston said.
“Oh, yes, he is,” Schultz replied complacently. “And he knew that a long time ago, and so did you. We can’t find the Incinerator’s hole, so we have to bring him out of it. It’s like killing a gopher.”
Simeon Grist Mystery - 04 - Incinerator Page 19
