by Ian Fox
“I saw her meeting a man.”
“A man?” He gripped the receiver so hard that his knuckles went white.
“Damn it, tell me who it is!”
“Sorry, that I don’t know. It’s just preliminary information. I’m waiting in front of the hotel so that I get a look at him. Then I’ll follow him home. You should know who it is by the end of the day.”
Carlo’s jaw started trembling with fury. “OK. Let me know as soon—”
“Hang on, he’s coming out, I can see him. It’s got to be him.”
“What? Tell me, what does he look like? Now!”
“It’s hard to say. Average appearance, around forty, wears glasses, about six-foot-three, brown hair, receding hairline …”
Carlo was trying to think of somebody matching that description, but to no avail. “Follow him! I want his name!”
“Of course, you’ll have it soon.”
Five minutes later, when the directors came back to the meeting room, Carlo was gone. They waited for over an hour, when finally one of them decided to call him.
After a short conversation, he turned to the others, visibly shaken. “Carlo shouted at me. He said he doesn’t have the time. The meeting is over.”
They looked at each other and left. They were used to such outbursts.
Chapter 58
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He can’t be killed by just anybody. It’s too dangerous. But you can do it. If you did it, nobody would suspect. She’s completely nuts. Christine’s nerves are in shatters. She must have said these things out of desperation. She can’t have meant it. Dr. Simon Patterson cursed the evening he had gone for dinner at their house. Why did I have to meet her?
He ran out of the hotel. With everything she had told him about Carlo Vucci, Christine had managed to scare him so much that he wanted to get home as soon as possible.
Crossing the road, Simon looked left and right. He walked quickly and thought about her. Poor thing, he bullies her all the time. I’d so like to help her. His attention was drawn to the loud screeching of tires. He jumped aside in a split second to avoid a small pickup. He saw the driver angrily shaking a fist at him.
When he stepped back onto the sidewalk, he breathed a sigh of relief. On the other side of the road he noticed a few people staring at him. He went on toward home.
Why doesn’t she resist him? She can’t be shut in that house for the rest of her life. … But you can kill him. If you do it …. He put his hand to his head, which was starting to throb with pain. He decided to go to the drugstore on the way home.
Simon remembered the police station and the questions they had asked. What should I tell them? Damn it, everything is going wrong. I’m going crazy.
At the drugstore he bought some painkillers and swallowed one without water. Standing there in the doorway, his attention was drawn to a man in a white T-shirt that he had seen earlier in the crowd of people on the other side of the road. Simon hurried to the bus stop.
Sitting toward the back of the bus and gazing absently at the passing scenery, Simon thought about Helen. How she must have suffered. He clenched his teeth, trying to hold back the tears. Who did it? Helen, tell me, let me know in whatever way you can. What am I going to do without you, all alone? A tear ran down his cheek. He brushed it away and looked around to see if anybody was watching him. Nobody was, apart from an overweight woman. I’ve no job, and they’re threatening to throw me in jail. How am I going to get out of this mess?
Feeling that he’d seen a familiar face, Simon glanced around the bus and spotted the same man from the road and the drugstore. What if this is the guy who killed Helen? And he tries to kill me too?
Simon snuck another peek. The man didn’t look like a murderer. Then it struck Simon. What if Carlo Vucci has hired a detective who’s been following me from the hotel? Oh, God. He found it difficult to swallow.
The bus doors opened. Though it was Simon’s stop, he decided to go another two stops to check if the man would get off then as well.
As expected, the man followed him. Because of his headache, Simon swallowed another tablet. He didn’t know which was worse: a detective sent by Carlo Vucci or Helen’s murderer. He wondered how to shake him off.
He walked along the narrow streets with the stranger on his tail. Earlier, in the crowd, the guy had seemed inconspicuous, but now there was just the two of them.
Finally, he saw an opportunity. A taxi appeared, Simon raised his hand, and a few moments later climbed in.
“Drive off! Somebody is following me, quickly!”
The taxi driver sped off.
With relief, Simon saw the guy look around helplessly for another taxi.
Five minutes later, Dr. Simon Patterson was home. The mixture of fear and the two painkillers in his stomach made him feel sick. He ran into the bathroom and vomited. At the end of his tether, he slammed his hand against the wall. I’ll go mad. I’ve got to do something.
But you can kill him. If you do it, nobody would suspect.
He rinsed his face with cold water and brushed his teeth. I can’t kill him, Christine, I’m not a murderer. I can’t.
He looked in the mirror and saw large black bags under his eyes. He thought he had aged. Then he cleaned his glasses.
In the kitchen, he made himself some chamomile tea and took it to the basement. I’ll go and work. That’ll calm me down.
When he got to his laboratory, he was in for a shock. Dorothy was lying motionless on her side. He immediately took her out of her cage and realized she was dead.
He groaned, “Oh, Dorothy, forgive me, wherever you are. I’m the one who killed you. It’s my fault. God should punish me. Kill me, too. I can’t go on.”
He cried, holding the rabbit and feeling lonely. There was nobody left; he was all alone in the dusty basement. Then he turned to the cage with the three rats, and they were dead too.
He thought about Helen shouting at him and telling him off. How he missed her and wished she was with him. She would know what to do. His crying got louder, turning into hysterical sobs.
He lamented his situation for another ten minutes and then trudged upstairs. There was nothing left to do in the basement. He decided to have a drink.
Chapter 59
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“I’m home!” shouted Christine as soon as she walked in. “Where are you, darling?”
A hoarse voice in the room next door said, “I’m in here, darling, watching a movie.”
She stopped in front of the mirror and arranged her hair. She took three deep breaths and then entered a cavernous room that served as a small movie theater. Several luxurious armchairs were lined up with glass tables next to them, on which stood fruit baskets. On both sides of a large state-of-the-art screen stood tall surround-sound speakers. Additional speakers along the sides of the room completed a full audio effect.
“It’s an interesting film. Come sit next to me.”
She forced a smile and sat in a chair next to his. Only then she noticed that it was a horror film.
A servant walked in and asked if madam would like anything.
“Vodka with orange juice, please,” Christine said. “And get me a smoked ham sandwich. I’m hungry now, but I won’t have any dinner later.”
The servant bowed and went to the kitchen.
“Where have you been?”
An unshaved man on the screen was standing at the bottom of some stairs, looking upward. In his right hand he was holding a large knife. The music indicated that something horrible was about to happen.
“Did a bit of shopping. Nothing special.”
“What did you say? I didn’t hear you.”
Christine was staring at the man, who was obviously going to kill somebody. A woman in the bathroom was applying face cream, not suspecting anything. She was very beautiful. The music increased the tension.
“I said I was shopping.”
“I see, shopping?”
He sai
d it in a way that made her understand he didn’t believe her.
“Yes, there was something I needed.”
The woman turned off the light in the bathroom and, naked, sashayed into the bedroom. The man, hidden behind the door, followed her with his eyes.
Christine wanted to suggest that the volume be lowered, but didn’t dare. She stared at the screen as a cold tingling feeling traced up her spine.
Carlo stroked her hand and looked at her for a moment. Christine shuddered. This was something that had recently started happening whenever he touched her. However, she didn’t move her hand away.
“Did you buy me anything?”
“Sorry, darling, but …”
The woman turned and saw the strange man in her room. She screamed and wanted to move away. But before she was able to, the man stabbed her in the abdomen and knocked her onto the bed.
The sound of the woman’s death throes echoed around the room and the horror of the scene was intensified by the screech of violins. Christine felt goose pimples on her skin and the strong squeeze of her husband’s hand.
She said, “Darling, you’re hurting me!”
The man lifted the knife again and pushed it into the woman’s chest. The camera approached her face and showed her bulging eyes and blood pouring from her mouth.
“Do we really have to watch this crap?”
“What crap?” he asked her nonchalantly. “She got what she deserved. She whored around and cheated on her husband.”
A burning sensation filled Christine’s stomach. She felt that the man in the movie had stabbed her. She began to get up, but Carlo stopped her.
“Where are you going?”
She pulled her hand out of his grip. “I don’t like this movie. I’m not watching this bloodbath. I’ll go and read instead. It’ll relax me.”
His eyes followed her icily.
First, Christine went to the kitchen and filled a wide, shallow plastic bowl with crushed ice from the freezer. Then she went to the bathroom and filled the basin with water. She pushed her hands into it and wetted her face a few times, trying to relax. She removed all her clothes and massaged her body with the icy water. This was something she did whenever she was upset. Like some sort of torture, it made her forget that she was upset.
To end the ritual, she rubbed herself with a towel and reapplied her makeup. Looking at herself in the mirror, she thought about what had happened in the movie room. That fat bastard suspects something for sure.
Chapter 60
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Sandra Grant and Steven West went again to Dr. Patterson’s house. When he opened the front door, they got a surprise. In front of them stood a neglected, unshaven man who obviously had done nothing but drink all day.
“You’d better come in if you must,” he said with a shaky voice.
“We can come back in an hour or two,” Sandra offered.
Simon leaned on the door handle, knowing that otherwise he would fall.
“No, no, do come in. Have you established yet who killed my wife?”
Both officers said nothing.
Simon shuffled into the house, leaving the front door open. The agents followed him, Sandra closing the door behind her.
Steven said, “Why we’re here, really, is because the evidence against you is growing.”
“So you think I killed my wife?” He opened a cabinet door and said, “Want a drink?”
In a firm voice Sandra said, “I’ll have to ask you to refrain from alcohol during our visit. We won’t have a drink either.”
Simon hesitated, before gesturing dismissively. “As you wish. I’ll refrain. Do you want anything nonalcoholic? Coke, tea, coffee?”
They shook their heads.
“OK, nothing then. Why don’t you sit down?”
“Where were you when your wife was murdered?” Sandra asked.
Simon laughed. “I’ve told you a hundred times. I went for a walk and then—”
“I don’t believe you. Tell us the truth. You killed your wife, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, it was me. I don’t know why you came here if you think that I did it. Why don’t you just arrest me?”
Steven said, “Don’t worry, you’ll be behind bars very soon. We have quite a lot of evidence. But tell us something, Dr. Patterson. You said you didn’t kill your wife. Did you move the scalpel that was used to cut her throat?”
Simon looked deep in thought.
“No, I didn’t touch it. In fact, I didn’t even notice it.”
“So how can you explain that we found your fingerprints on it?”
Simon panicked. “You’re trying to trick me. I never touched that scalpel.”
“There’s another thing,” Steven said. “We found out from the insurance company that both you and your wife have life insurance. In the case of one of you dying, the other one gets sixty thousand dollars. Not a bad sum.”
“That’s ridiculous. We’re insured because Helen wanted it. It wasn’t my idea at all. And it was years ago when we got the insurance.”
“Some people plan murders years in advance,” Steven said directly.
“You really are being ridiculous. I tell you, it wasn’t me who—”
“Your neighbor says you were always fighting with your wife.”
“Which neighbor?”
“John Melton. He says that you two often argued in front of him and his wife. Is that right?”
“Listen, they were just pointless little fights that meant nothing. That fool Melton has always been jealous of me and—”
“Why would he be jealous of you?” Steven asked. Sandra sat and listened.
“My roses have always done better than his. However hard he tries, he never—”
“You’re telling me he was jealous because of your roses? You’ll have to come up with something a bit more original than that, Dr. Patterson.”
Simon wrung his hands in his lap. “I can see you’ve already decided. What I don’t understand is why you don’t arrest me.”
“Oh, we will, Doctor. Soon, we’ll come with a warrant. Another day or two of gathering evidence and then ….” He got up and Sandra followed.
Simon walked them to the door. “See you,” he said dryly.
“Good-bye,” they replied.
Simon went back to the drinks cabinet. “Damn police. They’re determined to put me behind bars.” He filled his glass and staggered toward the window. “But I won’t let them. I won’t let them do it.”
Outside, Sandra spoke first. “Something isn’t right.”
Steven rolled his eyes. “What now? You always find something fishy. Isn’t it obvious he killed her?”
“He didn’t fall for your lie about the fingerprints on the scalpel. I don’t know what to say. It’s as if he is resigned to his fate. He didn’t even try to convince us.”
“He’s the murderer, Sandra. True, you’d never think it looking at him, but you know very well that you can’t tell a killer by his appearance.”
“I don’t know, Steven. Something’s telling me ….” She looked back toward Simon’s house. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe he did do it.”
Chapter 61
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Edna Weiss was walking along a narrow, sandy path in the park, thinking about Dr. Patterson’s fate. He had called her twenty minutes earlier, asking her not to come to clean the house because he was not feeling well. She was disappointed.
She tended to believe him; he had talked slowly and his voice shook twice. Perhaps he has been prescribed some tranquilizers and took too many, the poor thing. The thought that he could be drunk never entered her head.
She peered around to make sure that Bessie, her collie, was alright. She was sniffing around the nearby bushes. Edna remembered the headline in the newspaper: Did the doctor kill his wife? How stupid. Dr. Patterson didn’t kill her. They always get the wrong person. She called for Bessie, thinking the dog had wandered too far.
Edna sighed
out loud and admired the setting sun. The horizon was a glorious red while the sky was becoming silvery.
A swarm of tiny flies appeared out of nowhere and buzzed around her head. “Oh, go away,” she said, waving them off. “Why did you have to pick on me, of all people?”
When she had finally driven them away, she stood with her feet planted firmly on the ground. I know very well that Dr. Patterson didn’t kill her. She waved her hand again. Someone else killed Helen.
Chapter 62
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The more Simon thought about his situation, the more depressed he became. He was holding a half-empty bottle of beer and thinking about his options. He knew that alcohol was not his best friend, but didn’t know what else to do.
He had woken with a terrible headache. He swallowed two painkillers on an empty stomach and washed them down with beer. Then he thought about what the police had told him: Obviously, they have enough evidence.
Once, he had read an article about how many innocent people are wrongly convicted while the real perpetrators walk around free. The journalist claimed that young police officers hankered for promotions just as badly as people in business. In order to prove themselves, they tried to solve as many cases as possible in the shortest possible time. They didn’t balk at any means to achieve this and often did not check even the few bits of evidence they bothered to collect. Some went even further and falsified evidence in order to close a case sooner. There were even instances when police officers simply accused someone they didn’t like and then did everything to get him convicted.
Simon’s train of thought was interrupted by the telephone. The name Christine Vucci appeared on the screen.
“Hello, Simon, how are you feeling?”
“Not too good. Thanks for asking.”
“What’s happened?”
“The police were here. They said they’re going to put me in jail and have enough evidence against me.”
