by Ed McBain
“Were you paying for that apartment, Mr. Tudor?”
“Yes. Yes, I was. Yes. But it was our apartment, you know. We shared it. We share a lot of things, Barbara and I. We like to do a lot of things together. I have tickets for a show next week. A musical. She likes music. We’ll see that together. We do a lot of things together.”
The detectives stood in a silent knot around him. Carella cleared his throat.
“Did you go to the apartment, Mr. Tudor? The one on Canopy Street?”
“Yes, I did. I got there sometime around ten o’clock. In the night. It was nighttime. And I went right upstairs, and I used my key, and I…well, she was there. With this man. This man was touching her. In our apartment. Barbara was in our apartment with another man.” Tudor shook his head. “She shouldn’t do things like that. She knows I love her. I bought her a ruby necklace for Valentine’s Day. Did you see the necklace? It’s quite beautiful. She wears it very well.”
“What did you do when you found them, Mr. Tudor?”
“I…I was shocked. I…I…I wanted to know. She…she told me I didn’t own her. She told me she was free, she said nobody owned her, not me, not…not the man she was with and…and… and not Karl either, she said, not Karl, I didn’t even know who Karl was. She…she said she had promised this Karl she’d go away with him, but he didn’t own her either, nobody owned her, she said, and…and—”
“Yes, Mr. Tudor?”
“I couldn’t believe it because…well, I love her. You know that. And she was saying these terrible things, and this man, this Mike, stood there grinning. In his underwear, he was in his underwear, and she had on a nightgown I’d given her, the one I’d given her. I…I…I hit him. I kept hitting him, and Barbara laughed, she laughed all the while I was hitting him. I’m a very strong man, I hit him and I kept banging his head against the floor and then Barbara stopped laughing and she said, ‘You’ve killed him.’ I…I—”
“Yes?”
“I took her in my arms, and I kissed her and…and…I… my hands…her throat…she didn’t scream…nothing…I simply squeezed and…and she…she…she went limp in my arms. It was his fault I thought, his fault, touching her, he shouldn’t have touched her, he had no right to touch the woman I loved and so I…I went into the kitchen looking for a…a knife or something. I found a meat cleaver in one of the drawers and I…I went into the other room and cut off both his hands.” Tudor paused. “For touching her. I cut off his hands so that he would never touch her again.” His brow wrinkled with the memory. “There…there was a lot of blood. I…picked up the hands and put them in…in Barbara’s overnight bag. Then I dragged his body into the closet and tried to clean up a little. There…there was a lot of blood all over.”
They got the rest of the story from him in bits and pieces. And the story threaded the boundary line, wove between reality and fantasy. And the men in the squadroom listened in something close to embarrassment, and some of them found other things to do, downstairs, away from the big man who sat in the hardbacked chair and told them of the woman he’d loved, the woman he still loved.
He told them he had begun disposing of Chirapadano’s body last week. He had started with the hands, and he decided it was best to dispose of them separately. The overnight bag would be safe, he’d thought, because so many people owned similar bags. He had decided to use that for the first hand. But it occurred to him that identification of the body could be made through the finger tips, and so he had sliced those away with a kitchen knife.
“I cut myself,” he said. “When I was working on the fingertips. Just a small cut, but it bled a lot. My finger.”
“What type blood do you have, Mr. Tudor?” Carella asked.
“What? B, I think. Yes, B. Why?”
“That might explain the contradictory stain on the suit, Steve,” Kling said.
“What?” Tudor said. “The suit? Oh, yes. I don’t know why I did that, really. I don’t know why. It was just something I had to do, something I…I just had to do.”
“What was it you had to do, Mr. Tudor?”
“Put on his clothes,” Tudor said. “The dead man’s. I…I put on his suit, and his socks, and I wore his raincoat, and I carried his umbrella. When I went out to…to get rid of the hands.” He shrugged. “I don’t know why. Really, I don’t know why.” He paused. “I threw the clothes away as soon as I realized you knew about them. I went all the way out to Calm’s Point, and I threw them in a trash basket.” Tudor looked at the circle of faces around him. “Will you be keeping me much longer?” he asked suddenly.
“Why, Mr. Tudor?”
“Because I want to get back to Barbara,” he told the cops.
They took him downstairs to the detention cells, and then they sat in the curiously silent squadroom.
“There’s the answer to the conflicting stuff we found on the suit,” Kling said.
“Yeah.”
“They both wore it. The killer and the victim.”
“Yeah.”
“Why do you suppose he put on the dead man’s clothes?” Kling shuddered. “Jesus, this whole damn case…”
“Maybe he knew,” Carella said.
“Knew what?”
“That he was a victim, too.”
Miscolo came in from the Clerical Office. The men in the squadroom were silent.
“Anybody want some coffee?” he asked.
Nobody wanted any coffee.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photograph (c) Dragica Hunter
Ed McBain was one of the many pen names of the successful and prolific crime fiction author Evan Hunter (1926-2005). Born Salvatore Lambino in New York, McBain served aboard a destroyer in the US Navy during World War II and then earned a degree from Hunter College in English and psychology. After a short stint teaching in a high school, McBain went to work for a literary agency in New York, working with authors such as Arthur C. Clarke and P.G. Wodehouse, all the while working on his own writing on nights and weekends. He had his first breakthrough in 1954 with the novel The Blackboard Jungle, which was published under his newly legal name Evan Hunter and based on his time teaching in the Bronx.
Perhaps his most popular work, the 87th Precinct series (released mainly under the name Ed McBain) is one of the longest running crime series ever published, debuting in 1956 with Cop Hater and featuring over fifty novels. The series is set in a fictional locale called Isola and features a wide cast of detectives including the prevalent Detective Steve Carella.
McBain was also known as a screenwriter. Most famously he adapted a short story from Daphne Du Maurier into the screenplay for Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds (1963). In addition to writing for the silver screen, he wrote for many television series, including Columbo and the NBC series 87th Precinct (1961-1962), based on his popular novels.
McBain was awarded the Grand Master Award for lifetime achievement in 1986 by the Mystery Writers of America and was the first American to receive the Cartier Diamond Dagger award from the Crime Writers Association of Great Britain. He passed away in 2005 in his home in Connecticut after a battle with larynx cancer.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
-o-filter: grayscale(100%); -ms-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share
