Conduct in Question

by Mary E. Martin

  ***

  Katharine dropped swiftly into darkness.

  Shock was merciful to her. She barely clung to consciousness. A cold, sharp instrument traced circles on her shoulders and downward on her back. She knew there was no help. She had only wanted to trust someone enough to risk love.

  There was a surprising amount of blood from his work. The last desperate twitching rippled throughout her body, followed by a few brief shudders.

  Pain floated somewhere outside her body. A garden wall covered with vines and masses of tiny white flowers appeared before her. It was at least six feet high, with a wooden gate set in it like a door. When she opened the gate, sunshine streamed through.

  A child’s singsong voice led her into a formal garden with winding walks and shrubbery shaped like soldiers at attention. A golden light illuminated strangely docile animals she had never seen before. There she saw a little girl with blonde hair to her shoulders.

  “Here we go ‘round the mulberry bush,” the child sang, as she pushed her doll carriage along the garden path. Then she turned toward Katharine and said solemnly, “Shut the gate. There’s a bad lady on the other side.” Turning to attend to her doll, the child said simply, “We cannot let her in.”

  Katharine knew she was dying. So much time had run out. She could hear a scream and then soft moaning from the other side of the wall. The bad lady’s body was being twisted and turned and bent. She knew it soon would be dark.

  The little girl smiled now as she chattered to the doll. Katharine knew she would be called in from her play. In the distance, she could hear sobbing and pleading. She turned back, and the little girl was gone. Katharine was alone in the garden. Darkness rapidly cloaked all that she could see.

  ***

  Tony kneeled astride her twisted body. The blood seeped onto the floor. With a towel, he staunched the flow, gently patting her skin. It was amazing how much blood could come from his artistry. She was a truly beautiful woman now that she bore his mark. There was no birth without blood.

  His fist knotted her black, silky hair. With the thick lock of hair, he twisted her neck to view the side of her face.

  Slowly, he inserted the knife in its leather sheath and placed it, along with the twine and the gag, into his briefcase. He dismounted from her and sat beside her on the bed. Grasping her shoulders, he turned her onto her back. Her head lolled to one side. Bruises were appearing on that long and beautiful neck.

  He studied her chest. It did not rise or fall. He touched her breast. With his perfect claw, he circled her flat nipple. It did not respond. She must have suffocated in the pillow. Now she was dead. With a gentle smile, he carefully drew the cover over her. Standing before the mirror, he brushed off his suit with meticulous care, then left.

  ***

  A chambermaid found Katharine when she came to deliver towels. The paramedics and police rushed her to the Toronto General Hospital.

  Hours later, Katharine awoke to blinding white hospital walls. The garden wall was gone. A safe, familiar voice filtered through to her. Her eyes blinked open. Bob was there. She was safe.

  “You’re in the hospital. Thank God, Katharine,” came her husband’s voice. “You’ve been terribly cut. Your neck was almost broken! Who did this to you, Kate?”

  Katharine did not answer. She was quickly sinking backward and downward, hoping to find the garden once more. His persistent tones followed her. “Who was he?”

  She turned her head on the pillow in the direction of his voice. She did not open her eyes, but murmured, “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

  “You mean…” Bob could not find the words. He buried his face in his hands. “You picked up another stranger?” He choked back tears. “Kate, you’re sick. I don’t know what to do. You’ve got to get help.” He fell silent. Once again, Katharine slid into the blackness.

  ***

  Harry leaned against the wall of the hospital corridor. He had seen more than enough. Driving back from Frank’s office, Bob had received the call from the police telling him that that Katharine was nearly dead.

  Harry would never forget how Katharine looked as she lay on the gurney under the stark and sterile lights of the emergency room. Her once-sleek body lay crumpled under white sheets. Ugly red welts encircled her wrists and ankles. Violent deep-purple marks were scored along her neck. But worst of all was her cheek. On it was cut, with cruel precision, an intricate petal design. Ugly lines were etched down her neck and shoulders. Whoever had caused this desecration had murdered Rosie, Deirdre, and Linda Lee. His theory was destroyed. Frank was dead; he could not have attacked Katharine. Another hand was at work…the Florist, after all.

  Harry found his way to the cafeteria. Eating food was impossible to contemplate. He waited while the coffee machine drizzled out the coffee. Given what the secretary had said, maybe Katharine had gone to McKeown’s office. In the barren coffee room, lit only by the light of the vending machines, he drank his bitter coffee. Then he crumpled up his cup and tossed it into the basket.

  CHAPTER 36

  Harry finally went home to his empty house. Every inch of him ached. He tossed his coat onto the hall chair. In the kitchen, he stood in front of the refrigerator and drank the rest of the orange juice from the container. With Laura gone, nothing seemed to matter much.

  He switched on the television to catch the local news. A reporter stood at the corner of Danforth and Coxwell Avenues. The twirling lights on the cruisers and ambulance illuminated the street in garish reds and yellows. Frank’s throat had been slit. He could not have attacked Katharine. And Chin was in jail. Rosie was marked. So were Deirdre, Linda Lee and now, Katharine. Another hand had carved those grotesque petals. A wrathful god was on the loose.

  Tony McKeown was everywhere. He represented the church in the rezoning application. He represented Katharine and Gerry in the will dispute. His client, whoever it was, had submitted an offer for Marjorie’s house. Yet nothing suggested a direct connection with Albert Chin.

  Picking up the phone, he dialed Stephen’s home number. As the phone rang, his eyes drifted about the room. The upholstery on the chair, once so comfortable, was frayed. In the lamp’s light, he could see a layer of dust coating the coffee table. Suddenly the whole house seemed worn and shabby from years of neglect. The phone continued to ring. He wanted Stephen’s advice: something, anything about Tony.

  He gazed out the window at the garden. Dark images of McKeown swooping downward like some mindless bird of prey came to him. At first, his face was friendly enough, but then shadows slipped across, so that only the eyes burned from the dark. Such dazzling eyes could paralyze a victim, he thought.

  It was only a hunch. There was no proof of any kind, but Harry’s suspicions hardened. Tony was the killer. But he had nothing to go on.

  He dialed Natasha. He yearned for the comfort of her soft and reasoned tones.

  “You have reached…” Harry hung up. She was not in.

  He knew he was on his own.

  Tomorrow morning, he would pay a surprise visit to Tony’s office. With a growing sense of dread, he climbed the stairs to the silent rooms above. Without turning on the lights, he lay on the bed. Exhaustion swept over him, and instantly he fell into a deep sleep. At four in the morning, he sat up. Twisted in the covers, he fought to free himself.

  At ten o’clock that morning, Harry arrived at Cheney, Arpin without an appointment. The reception area dazzled in the morning light. Beyond the expanse of glass, the lake glared brilliantly, hurting his eyes.

  Striding toward the rosewood reception desk, he tried to push thoughts of the rusting fire escapes outside his own office windows to the back of his mind. Earlier he had debated the wisdom of simply appearing at Tony’s office. The man would either see him or not. Crawford had always extolled the virtues of surprise and rear-guard action.

  Last night, Harry had imagined dragons and gargoyle-faced keepers at the gate, but the receptionist greeted him with a welcoming smile. How could such
a hideous being as Tony exist in the midst of such normalcy?

  “I’ll just see if he can squeeze you in, Mr. Jenkins.” In moments, Harry was whisked down corridors to McKeown’s office, which had a miniature reception room of its own.

  “Please have a seat, Mr. Jenkins. Mr. McKeown will be with you shortly,” said the secretary. Harry sank into the sofa. The room was elegant and spacious, with dark paneling and a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with yards of law texts. It had all the accoutrements of a highly successful law practice.

  I have nothing with which to confront him, only a hunch. He will escape. He thought of leaving, but he had no excuse for such behavior.

  Harry was fascinated by the photographs of African masks lining one wall. Some were rough-hewn and primitive. Others, with fine flowing lines, were ornately carved and decorated. Harry took out his reading glasses and peered more closely at one. It showed a bronze mask with tiny, agonized faces carved into its chin. Along the cheek and up to the forehead, the tiny faces grew more serene, as if they had been released from purgatory. Harry pocketed his glasses and resumed his seat.

  Ten minutes passed. Rising to pace, Harry checked his watch.

  The secretary smiled at Harry and said, “We’ll just knock on his door to see what’s keeping him. Come with me.”

  Harry stood behind her as she tapped softly. She turned to him with a brief smile and said, “Mr. McKeown is such a wonderful man, but sometimes he gets so involved with his work.” Receiving no reply, she opened the door.

  Harry saw Tony seated at his desk. The strangeness of the scene fascinated him. In the morning light, the lawyer’s features seemed afflicted with remote and private suffering. Oblivious to them, he slid a soft black leather glove on his left hand. Carefully, he fitted it onto each finger, one by one. Then he held out his gloved hand as if to admire it. His face grew serene as he picked up a silver knife.

  The secretary coughed discretely. As if awakened from a dream, Tony startled. When he looked up, his expression was feral, like that of an animal disturbed while devouring its prey. Cold certainty swept over Harry. He had met the killer in his lair, and he had come with nothing.

  Swiftly, Tony tore the glove from his hand and buried it and the knife in his pocket. His eyes gleamed with a brightness Harry had not seen before.

  Recognition flickered in Tony’s eyes, replacing the malevolence. A masking smile spread across his face. Tony sprang from his chair. “Harry, old man! What can I do for you?”

  They shook hands, and the secretary withdrew.

  “Do sit down.” Harry took the chair across the desk. “Coffee?”

  Harry shook his head. “I’ve come about the Deighton estate.”

  “Are your clients going to accept the offer?”

  “I doubt it. The beneficiaries have a lot to sort out first.”

  The telephone rang. Tony reached for it.

  Harry was transfixed. On the smallest finger of McKeown’s left hand, he saw a tiny, perfect claw. What a strangely beautiful deformity.

  “Yes, send them in,” said Tony, “I need the research for this afternoon.” Hanging up, he turned to Harry and smiled broadly. “Sorry, old man. Some students are bringing material I need. Won’t take a moment.”

  Tony inspected his pant leg. With meticulous care, he picked several pieces of lint from one knee. The door opened. Two students struggled inward, carrying stacks of books and briefs. One of them was becoming red-faced from his exertions.

  “Gentlemen,” Tony began pleasantly, “I’d like you to meet Harold Jenkins, a colleague of mine. Harry, this is Brian Willoughby and Mark Goldberg.”

  Harry nodded and smiled. The students breathed heavily under their burdens.

  “Sir? Where should we put the texts?”

  The other asked, “Where do you want the Chin purchase and rezoning files?”

  Harry caught his breath. Chin files?

  Tony nodded absently toward a table in the farthest corner. As Willoughby hoisted his pile, one book popped out from his stack and flipped open as it fell to the floor. Harry saw Goldberg freeze. Willoughby cursed under his breath.

  Swift and deft as a panther, Tony was instantly on the floor beside the unwitting law student. Crouching, he scooped up the volume and rose to tower over Willoughby, who appeared unaware of the senior lawyer’s cold anger.

  McKeown ran a fingernail down the spine of the book, then motioned both of them over for closer inspection. “Mr. Willoughby,” he began in bland tones, “how much do you think this volume cost?”

  Harry, entranced by the growing flatness in Tony’s eyes, caught his breath.

  Willoughby shrugged. Harry winced. The boy was foolhardy.

  “Mr. Willoughby?” The edge in McKeown’s voice was sharp.

  “Yes, sir?” Willoughby deigned to flash a charming smile.

  “What value would you put on this book?” McKeown held the leather-bound legal text out to the law student.

  The boy shrugged again. “Well, I really don’t know, sir.”

  “With your carelessness, Willoughby, you have cracked the spine.”

  “Me?” The student’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “I saw you drop it,” McKeown said flatly.

  “Really? If I did, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—”

  “How much, Mr. Willoughby?”

  Momentarily, the young student appeared flustered.

  “You don’t know, do you?”

  “Not exactly, Mr. McKeown.” Willoughby cleared his throat. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. I’ll certainly pay to replace it.”

  McKeown turned from the law student and sat at his desk. His low chuckle filled the room. “You don’t have the slightest idea of its value, do you, Willoughby?”

  Harry sat paralyzed by the spectacle.

  McKeown began brushing his trouser leg. He spoke in a soft, lilting voice. “Mr. Willoughby, isn’t money wonderful? If you have enough, there are never any real consequences in life. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Brian Willoughby stared at the senior lawyer. Reaching into his breast pocket, he retrieved his checkbook. “Tell me how much you want, sir,” the student said as he uncapped his pen.

  Momentarily, McKeown appeared amused. “Put that away, young man.” His voice grew quietly chilling. “This time, money is not enough.”

  Harry wanted to to intervene, but his fascination with the grotesque scene rooted him to the spot. The pornography of another’s humiliation at the hands of a master, he thought.

  “Sir?”

  A smile broke out on McKeown’s face. “You’ve always been protected from any consequences, isn’t that so, Willoughby?”

  Harry was stunned. His mind swung in wild arcs. He was about to witness a crucifixion. And he could neither intervene nor turn away. Willoughby had no idea he was being led to the slaughter. The boy smiled tentatively.

  McKeown swung out of his chair and stood close to him. “You’re fired, Mr. Willoughby. That’s a real consequence money can’t fix.”

  Willoughby turned pale in the darkening office. He stammered, “You can’t do that, sir.”

  Harry, deeply embarrassed, gazed out the window.

  McKeown spoke coldly. “You are clumsy and incompetent.”

  Panic struck the boy. “You can’t fire me. There’s a committee. I’ll appeal to the committee.”

  McKeown said quietly, “Mr. Willoughby, I am the committee.”

  Willoughby’s shoulders sagged. Goldberg tugged on his sleeve. Silently, they headed for the door. Harry turned away. Fascination, like that with the carnage of a traffic accident, suffused him.

  McKeown smiled benignly at Harry. “Students these days. You have to scare them witless to make any kind of impression.”

  He ushered Harry over to the coffee table. “You’re on your own, Harry? No partners or students?”

  Harry shook his head. “No. I prefer it that way.”

  “Wise man, Harry.” Tony stroked his finger and continued ref
lectively, “You don’t have the responsibility of teaching these useless young minds. You don’t have to get involved in your partners’ lives. Just be your own man.”

  Harry was disgusted. McKeown was trying to draw him into his world of pain and humiliation by inviting him to take part in his cruelty and pleasure.

  “So, what about the Deighton estate?” asked Tony.

  Harry stared into McKeown’s eyes. They reflected calm after an outrageous storm, as if nothing had happened. “It’s about Katharine Rowe.”

  Other than a slight flicker of the eyelids, McKeown betrayed no reaction. “Yes?”

  “She’s in the hospital. If she lives, she will be terribly scarred.”

  “Oh, my God!” said Tony softly. “Was she in an accident?”

  “No. She was attacked.”

  “By whom? Where?” Tony’s breathing became sharp and shallow. Fury burned in his eyes.

  “Nobody knows.” Harry leaned forward. “But she was found in a room last night in the Royal York Hotel. She’d been bound, gagged, and beaten. A peculiar design was carved with a knife on her cheek and down her neck and shoulders.”

  Tony was absolutely still for a moment before speaking. “What demented person would do such a horrific thing? Do you think it’s this fellow in the papers?” Tony paused, as if trying to recall. “The Florist…or the Mad Artist? Whatever they call him.”

  Harry shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s beyond belief. But I’m here because you told me last night that she canceled her appointment with you.”

  “Yes, that’s right. But she didn’t say why or where she was going. You were worried about Frank Sasso.” Tony nodded his head energetically as if recalling their conversation in detail. “I told you about some bars he hangs out in.”

  Too smooth, Harry thought. “Frank was found dead yesterday afternoon.”

  “What…? What happened to him?”

  “His throat was slit. The police found him in his office.”