by Len Levinson
“What do you do with your time?”
“I think about things.”
“You spend your time thinking about things—that’s all?”
“Oh, I also observe people, and go to various social functions. Sometimes I have love affairs with beautiful young women like you.”
She looked very primly at him. “What a strange life you lead.”
“I don’t find it strange at all.”
“Are you happy?”
“I’m not deliriously happy, but I’m happy.”
“You don’t look so happy.”
“I don’t?”
“No. In fact, you were rather grumpy when I came over to ask if you were my old classmate from the University of Missouri.”
“University of Minnesota,”
“Oh yes. The University of Minnesota.”
“I apologize if I was grumpy to you.”
“Are you sure nothing’s bothering you?”
“Quite sure.”
“If you want to unburden yourself, you may feel free to talk to me. They say I’m a good listener. And I can keep a secret.”
“You look like you have shoulders that a person could lean on.”
“Yes, I’m a very strong person,” she said, holding her chin in the air.
“What if one wanted to rest his weary head on your bosom?”
She blinked. “What was that again?”
“I think you heard me.”
“Are you getting fresh with me, Mr. Butler?”
“I’m afraid I am.”
“Well, I suppose a woman has to expect this sort of thing at,” she looked at her watch, “three o’clock in the morning.”
“Indeed she does, particularly when she looks as luscious as you.”
“I suppose I should take that as a compliment.”
“It certainly wasn’t an insult.”
“No, I don’t suppose it was. Well, where were we? Oh yes, you were going to tell me what’s doing in New York, what shows to see, and so forth.”
“What sort of things do you like?”
“I have wide-ranging tastes. I prefer the unusual, the bizarre, the offbeat, as it were.”
“May I recommend the Egyptian exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum?”
“That sounds like a delightful idea. I love Egypt. Visited there once. Rode a camel out to the pyramids. Quite amazing edifices, really. Millions died to construct them, they say.”
“So they say.”
“But it was worth it. I mean the pyramids are just incredible.”
“I doubt if any of those dead workers would agree with you. By the way, may I buy you another drink?”
“Oh, you don’t have to.”
“I know I don’t have to. But may I anyway?”
“That would be very kind of you.”
Butler raised his hand and the waiter came scurrying over. Another round of drinks was ordered and the waiter launched himself toward the bar.
Butler scratched his stubbled chin and considered Wilma B. Willoughby. He still didn’t know if she was from the Agency or was just another crazy lady, but suspected she was both. He decided to play the game a little longer and see what score developed.
“I can also recommend a revival of Beckett’s Waiting for Godot in the Village,” he said.
She smiled, lighting another cigarette. “Oh, I love Beckett, particularly that play. In fact, I played the part of Vladimir in a production of it at the University of Massachusetts.”
“Minnesota.”
“That’s right, Minnesota.”
“Yes, I love Beckett too. He’s so convoluted and cynical, and yet he gets right to the essence of life, doesn’t he?”
“Indeed he does,” she said.
“I believe in getting to the essence of things too, don’t you?”
“Oh, of course.”
“I mean, intelligent people shouldn’t have to beat around the bush, should they?”
“Certainly not.”
“They why don’t you come home with me, Ms. Willoughby, and perhaps we can show each other things that are unusual, bizarre, and offbeat.”
Her ears turned pink, as she sucked her cigarette. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Mr. Butler. After all, we hardly know each other.”
“But there is no better way for a man and a woman to become acquainted.”
“As I said earlier, I suppose a woman has to expect this sort of thing at this time of night.”
“Particularly when she’s alone in a saloon, because a man would think, on seeing her, that perhaps she’s looking for someone to bed down with. It’s not a completely unwarranted assumption, you know.”
Wilma B. Willoughby shook her head sadly. “It’s a shame that a woman who suffers from insomnia and incurable friendliness has to be misunderstood so often.”
“Oh, so that’s it.”
“Yes.”
“Insomnia and incurable friendliness?”
“Uh huh.”
“You couldn’t sleep so you got all dressed up and came down to the Oak Room.”
“Not exactly. I was dressed already, wasn’t tired, and decided to have a night cap before attempting to sleep.”
“You’re staying at the Plaza?”
“No.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“What’s the big secret?”
“Why your great curiosity?”
“I am by nature a curious man.”
“Well I am by nature a secretive woman.”
“Got something to hide?”
“My privacy and peace of mind.”
“Perhaps I could help you with your insomnia.”
“How?”
“By rocking you to sleep on my big water bed.”
“Oh Mr. Butler, really. Must we go on this way?”
“What way would you prefer to go on?”
“I’d prefer to resume our discussion of the theater.”
“That’s right too. You studied drama at the University of Massachusetts, I mean the University of Missouri, I mean the University of Minnesota.”
“Minnesota,” she said. “The University of Minnesota.”
“Yes, the University of Minnesota.”
She yawned. “You know, I believe I’m getting drowsy.”
“This conversation must be boring you. I apologize with all my heart.”
“Oh no, it’s not the conversation but the hour.”
“Let me see you home.”
“I can get along quite well by myself, thank you.”
“You can’t leave me like this,” he said, with a sense of genuine deprivation.
“Where did you study drama?”
“In the school of hard knocks.”
She finished her drink, eyeing him over the rim of her glass. “I hope you didn’t get knocked too hard,” she said, after setting the empty glass down.
“The harder the knock, the more profound the lesson.”
“Tell me about it,” she said.
“Perhaps some other time. I wouldn’t want to keep you up past your bedtime.”
“Oh yes, my bedtime.” She stood and smoothed the front of her dress. Her breasts were large as melons, and there was a most delicious odor of flowers emanating from her.
“Is there anything I can say or do to seduce you?” he asked hopefully.
“I’m afraid not.”
“May I call you?”
“Give me your number and I’ll call you”
“Promise?”
“I never make promises. What’s your number?”
“I’m in the phone book under Butler.”
“First name?”
“I never use my first name.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like it.”
“Is it Aloysius?”
“It’s even worse than Aloysius.”
“Algenon?”
“Stop guessing, bec
ause I’m not going to tell you anyway.”
“But Butler is a very common name. How do I distinguish you from all the other Butlers in the phone directory?”
“Butler is not a common name. It refers to a fine old Southern family.”
“Of gunrunners and slave owners.”
“Exactly. But you didn’t have to bring that up.”
“It’s nice to keep things in their proper perspective.”
“In the phone directory you shall know me by my first initial and my East 79th Street address.”
“Why don’t you just tell me your phone number?”
“Why don’t you tell me yours?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
“Well I don’t want to either.” He looked up at her and winked. “Do you think you’d like to see East 79th Street? It’s very nice this time of night. And my bedroom window has a beautiful view of the East River.”
She smirked. “So does my bedroom window. Good night, Mr. Butler.”
“And the best of nights to you, Ms. Willoughby.”
“Thank you so much for the drink and the scintillating conversation.”
“Oh, it wasn’t that scintillating.”
“But it was, it really was.” She adjusted her shoulder bag, winked and walked away.
Butler sipped his Irish whiskey and watched her go, wondering who she really was. Ten years with the Agency had made him paranoid and suspicious of everyone. There definitely was something weird about that one. He should check on her to make sure. He was out of work and didn’t have anything better to do.
He had two more leisurely drinks, then called the waiter for his check, paid it, and stood, folding his Burberry over his arm. He walked out of the Oak Room, through the lobby of the Plaza Hotel, and out the front entrance, where a cab was disgorging two male passengers. The doorman held the door open and when the cab was empty Butler got into the back seat. He told the driver his East 79th Street address, and the cab rumbled off into the night.
When the Agency had transferred Butler to New York from Washington, it’d taken him months to figure out what part of town he wanted to live in. He quickly rejected the upper West Side because it was crawling with mental patients that the state had ejected from various institutions because of the budget cutbacks. He didn’t like Greenwich Village because it was filled with advertising and public relations executives pretending to be bohemians. He wanted to live in Chinatown because he loved the food, but couldn’t find an apartment down there. Soho was the new “in” neighborhood, but Butler loathed things that were “in” because he perceived that “in” things and places were designated and promoted by people who had vested financial interest in them, and he didn’t like to feel he was being conned.
That left the Upper East Side, which he wasn’t too crazy about either. Of course, he liked the blocks between Central Park and Lexington Avenue, but a man on a spy’s modest salary couldn’t afford to live there, so he had to be content going farther east to the blocks where the low-level business executives, airline stewardesses and professional football players lived. The supermarkets sold overpriced goods, the restaurants were overrated and the saloons were like the monkey house at the zoo. Butler thought it a very tacky neighborhood. He’d been in apartments where three secretaries lived in two rooms, and it was hell trying to get one of them alone. Life was filled with problems.
The cab stopped in front of his apartment building and he got out. Crossing the lobby, he waved to George the doorman, who was dozing on the sofa, a copy of the New York Daily News open on his lap. He took the elevator up to the fourteenth floor, which really was the thirteenth floor, but since people tend to be superstitious it was called the fourteenth floor. There was no thirteenth floor in the eighteen-story building.
He walked down the carpeted corridor to his apartment, inserted his two keys in the two latches, and went inside. Turning on a light, he hung his Burberry in the hall closet and entered the living room that was decorated in contemporary semi affluent bachelor style, which is to say that there was a big comfortable sofa and an expensive stereo system. Butler turned the stereo to his favorite FM classical station, and the Prokofiev violin concerto number one in D major came on. He smiled, because it was one of his favorite pieces. Loosening his necktie, he unfastened the top button on his shirt and shuffled toward the bathroom to take a leak. He felt sleepy and thought how nice it would be to go to bed.
Approaching the bathroom, he saw that the door was open and something had been spilled on the floor. He must have dropped something by mistake when he was hurrying to see Shankham. Turning on the bathroom light, he looked down and saw that it was blood. There was a six-inch splash of it in the middle of the floor, and drops of it leading to the bathtub and behind the shower curtain. Hastily he pulled aside the shower curtain.
Lying in the bathtub was Wilma B. Willoughby, her arms crossed over her stomach and her throat slashed from ear to ear. Blood also oozed from her mouth, nose and ears. Her eyes were open and staring in horror at something. She was absolutely still and absolutely dead.
Chapter Three
Butler looked at Wilma B. Willoughby, aghast. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He had been talking to her at the Plaza only an hour ago, and now she was dead in his bathtub! Bending over, he touched her arm, and she was still warm. He fingered her pulse; and she had none. In the bathtub with her was one of the Sabatier chef knives he used on the rare occasions when he cooked for himself. It was covered with blood.
“Oh-oh,” Butler said, trying to figure out what could possibly have happened. He’d seen many dead bodies during his careers as Green Beret in Vietnam and secret agent in the various hot spots of the world, but never in his own bathtub, with his own knife, somebody he’d been trying to seduce that very night. “Maybe this is all a bad dream,” he said. He often had bad dreams.
There was a loud knock at the door. “Oh-oh,” he said again. There was no fire escape for quick exit and it was thirteen floors to the pavement below. It wasn’t the fall that was so bad, but the sudden stop. He decided to pretend no one was home.
The knocking became louder. “Open up! It’s the police!”
Butler stood quietly in the bathroom beside the dead body of Wilma B. Willoughby and wondered what to do. He realized quickly that he had no options whatsoever. All he could do was see what happened. But who had killed Wilma B. Willoughby? And why in his apartment, of all places?
He heard the unmistakable sound of shoulders crashing against his door. He knew the sound well because he’d broken down many a door in his day. Calmly he walked into his living room just as the front door exploded open and three cops came flying into his vestibule.
“Hello,” Butler said cordially.
The cops untangled themselves and looked at him. Two wore uniforms and the other was in plain clothes. The one in plain clothes walked warily toward Butler and took out his shield.
“Police,” he said.
“What can I do for you?”
“What’s your name?”
“Butler. What’s your name?”
“Detective Shannon. Nineteenth Precinct. We’re responding to a complaint that someone was screaming in this apartment.”
“Who made the complaint?”
“I’ll ask the questions,” said Shannon crossly. He was a big guy with red hair and a red nose. “This your apartment?”
“Yes it is.”
“What’s going on here?”
“Nothing at all. I just got home from a bar.”
“Mind if we look around?”
“I most certainly do, if you don’t have a warrant.”
“I don’t need a fuckin’ warrant. I got probable cause. Somebody might’ve been killed here for all I know.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Butler said.
One of the uniformed cops pointed to the floor. “Hey Shannon, look!”
Everybody looked in the direction of the cop’s finger, and Butler gulped when he saw the tra
il of bloody footprints he had made while coming from the bathroom.
Butler said, “I can explain everything.”
Shannon yanked out his service revolver and pointed it at Butler’s nose. “Put your hands up!”
“Now really...”
“Put your hands up!”
“Yes, sir.” Butler raised his hands.
Shannon spoke out of the corner of his mouth to his companions. “Olson, put your gun on this alleged perpetrator while Murphy and I search the apartment.”
“Right.”
Olson took out his service revolver and pointed it at Butler’s furiously beating heart while Shannon and Murphy followed the bloody footprints to the bathtub.
“Holy shit!” exclaimed Murphy, in the bathroom.
“I can explain everything,” Butler said, with a cordial smile.
Shannon and Murphy came storming out of the bathroom. “Call homicide,” Shannon told Murphy.
“Right.”
Murphy picked up Butler’s green push button telephone, and Shannon turned to Butler. “Why’d you kill her?”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“What’s she doing here?”
“Damned if I know.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell me that you just got home and happened to find her like that in your bathtub.”
“As a matter of fact that’s exactly what happened.”
“Sure it is.”
“It is.”
“Hold out your hands, scumbag.” Shannon reached behind his belt, took out his cuffs and slapped them on Butler’s extended wrists. “You’re under arrest for the murder of that girl in there. Hereafter anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to counsel by attorney. Understand?”
“I’d like to call an attorney right away, if you don’t mind.”
“All the attorneys in the world couldn’t help you, scumbag. Let’s go downtown.”
“Why can’t I call my attorney first?”
“Because I say you can’t.”
“But you said before that I had a right to counsel by attorney.”
“Did I say that?”
“Of course you did.”
Shannon squinched together his eyebrows and thought for a few moments. “Oh yeah, I guess I did. I do that spiel so many times a day I forget what’s in it. Well, you’ll talk to your attorney when I get good and ready to let you, get it?”
