Monkey Puzzle

by Paula Gosling

‘She’s just your type,’ Tos said. ‘A nice girl, steady, intelligent, a little shy, but . . .’

  ‘She’s about as shy as a rattlesnake,’ Stryker said.

  ‘I thought she looked nice,’ Pinsky said, ruminatively.

  ‘I thought you went for redheads,’ Neilson said.

  Stryker eyed him. ‘Who told you that?’

  Neilson shrugged. ‘I heard around. Big redheads.’

  ‘Big redheads are what wore him down,’ Toscarelli said. ‘He used to be six foot tall. What he needs in his old age is a little brunette, a quiet life, home cooking – ’

  ‘That does it,’ Stryker said. ‘I’m going to beat this nagging bastard to death.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ Toscarelli stood massively before him.

  Stryker glared up at him, then cleared his throat. ‘I see you’ve got a new coat,’ he said, fingering Toscarelli’s lapel. ‘Nice material.’

  It started to snow again around six-thirty. Fat clinging flakes tumbled over one another in an effort to get to the ground first, piling up, sticking to everything. They stuck to the hunched shoulders of Richard Wayland as he staggered across the street with the other pedestrians at the busy intersection near the University.

  Perhaps he staggered a little more than the others.

  He slipped and lurched, reached out a hand to steady himself, and left a perfect handprint on the hood of the police car that had drawn up for the light. The compacted snow of the handprint melted slightly from the heat of the idling engine, but by the time Wayland had reached the far side of the street, the print had begun to fill in again with fresh snow.

  The two officers in the car were arguing about the best place to stop for their coffee break. One place had a good pie, the other good chilli. Clipped to a board between them was a clear photograph of Richard Wayland. His hair was neatly combed, his tweeds were perfect, his smile warm and sincere, his handsome face showed intelligence and sensitivity.

  No wonder they didn’t recognise him.

  Kate hurried up the stairs to the English Department, aware of the snow that had started to fall during her evening seminar. All she had to do was gather up her things and make a run for it. With luck, she should be able to get out of the car park and onto the expressway before it got too thick. As they’d discussed Chandler’s concept of the hero, she’d watched the snow gathering on the sill beyond the glass. When it had covered it over entirely, she’d dismissed the students ten minutes early wishing them a safe journey home. She hoped she’d have the same.

  Her footsteps echoed in the empty foyer and off the other office doors as she passed them, slowing slightly as she saw her own office door was open and the light was on. She was certain she’d closed it before going down to the classroom. Of course. It would be Richard – he had a key to her office, as she had one to his.

  ‘Richard? Where have you – ’ She stepped through her office door and froze. All the drawers of her desk were opened, and the contents were strewn around the floor. Her filing cabinet drawers were open, too, their contents jumbled and muddled, with bits of paper sticking up and drooping over the sides.

  ‘Oh, my God . . .’ she said, stepping into the room.

  On the far side of her desk lay Dan Stark, one knee up and his head in shadow. Except that it wasn’t only a shadow that spread around his head, but blood . . .

  From behind her there came a rustle, a movement, stealthy but quick.

  In the mirror of her windows a distorted figure was reflected against the blackness outside. It raised an arm, high, high. In the hand, something glittered . . .

  A scream rose in Kate’s throat before she even turned.

  And she turned too late.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Glare.

  She closed her eyes tightly.

  Noise.

  Clatter of instruments, the heavy mechanical breathing of a resuscitator, people’s voices, footsteps, someone choking.

  Smells.

  Alcohol, disinfectant, soap, vomit, sweat.

  A hospital.

  I’m in hospital, Kate thought, and immediately felt better. I’m not dead. My head couldn’t ache like this if I were dead, could it? She raised a hand, or tried to, found it constricted by something. A sheet or blanket? When she lifted her head slightly to see what it was, a wave of nausea swept over her, and she vomited before she could stop herself. Instinctively she turned her head, so most of it went on to the floor. A nurse appeared from the cloudland somewhere beyond the focus of her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Kate.

  The nurse grinned. ‘Never mind, kiddo, you aimed for the floor – that’s the most we ask for, down here.’

  ‘What happened?’ Kate asked. ‘Was I in an accident?’

  The nurse looked at her and raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t remember?’

  ‘No. I remember finishing my class early, and starting upstairs.’ Kate frowned in concentration. ‘Did I fall?’

  ‘No.’ Kate turned her head towards the new voice and regretted it instantly, both for the movement and what she saw. Stryker stood there, tweed cap pulled down nearly to the bridge of his nose, his eyes shining in the shadow like an angry animal’s.

  ‘You walked into your office and interrupted a bit of butchery. For some reason this annoyed the killer so much he neglected to finish the job on Stark and started in on you, instead.’

  ‘Butchery?’ Kate’s voice was a rasp.

  ‘Fortunately, you were saved by the bell,’ Stryker went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘The bell and Dr Coulter, who came along, screamed blue murder, and nearly got killed herself.’

  ‘Butchery?’ Kate repeated. It sounded awful, that word.

  ‘At this rate, the only people left up there in that ivory tower of yours will be the janitors and cleaning ladies. Probably do a better job. WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU DOING WANDERING AROUND THERE ALONE AT THAT HOUR?’ he suddenly shouted.

  ‘Lieutenant, keep your voice down,’ the nurse said, from where she was wiping up Kate’s mess. ‘This is a hospital.’

  ‘Looks more like a battlefield,’ he muttered.

  ‘It’s that, too,’ the nurse said, standing up. ‘And we don’t need you adding to the artillery by shooting off your mouth. What’s the problem? They’re all alive, aren’t they?’

  ‘Makes a goddamn change,’ Stryker muttered.

  ‘I think I’m going to be sick again,’ Kate murmured, and found herself doing just that into a steel bowl held by Stryker, who seemed to derive some perverse satisfaction from her discomfort.

  ‘That’s right – that’s this morning’s breakfast,’ he said, encouragingly. ‘Keep it up and we’ll be back to last night’s dinner before you know it.’ He put the bowl down and wiped her face gently with a damp paper towel conjured up from somewhere behind her. She noticed, for the first time, that under his overcoat he was dressed in a suit and tie. ‘First she spits on me, then she pukes. Fine romance, this is,’ he muttered. ‘Now – can you tell me what happened up there?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t remember. I don’t know how I got here – I don’t even know how you got here. You didn’t have to get all dressed up, just for me.’

  ‘I was conducting La Bohème and we had to stop the performance because they said this broad was crying out my name at the hospital, so I came. I’m like that. Chivalrous.’ She just looked at him, and he looked away. His shoulders were hunched up. He took a cigar and began to roll it between his palms, holding it chest-high. His stance reminded her of a boxer’s – he had the same habit of rising on the balls of his feet with every step. He moved off a way and began to talk into the air. He didn’t light the cigar but continued to roll it between his hands. It was beginning to fray at one end, but he didn’t notice. ‘Stark was in your office. Know why?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Great. While he w
as in there, somebody hit him over the head and cut off his ear.’

  ‘His ear?’

  ‘That’s right. They’re trying to sew it back on, now. The way it looks, the killer heard you coming, hid behind the door, and walloped you when you walked in. Ring any bells?’

  She closed her eyes. Mists and fog, shadows moving, a mirror, something horrible – Dan? – and something glittering. A screech. ‘No, no bells.’

  He whirled and glared at her. ‘Why did you dismiss your class early?’

  ‘Did I?’ She looked at him, saw droplets shining on the shoulders of his coat. ‘It was snowing – is it still snowing?’ It was coming back to her a little at a time. ‘I wanted to get home before it got bad. I went upstairs – my office door was open – I thought it was Richard, but . . .’

  ‘What made you think it was him? Did you see him?’

  She shook her head, which made it ache even more. She put her hand up and encountered stickiness. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Did you see anyone?’ Stryker demanded.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shit.’ The cigar suddenly shredded itself between his palms and showered down on to the floor. ‘Goddamn it, these things are made of papers these days. Paper.’ In disgust he kicked the shreds of tobacco under a trolley, looked up, saw the nurse glaring at him, shrugged, and knelt down to gather up the bits and pieces. He spoke, but Kate couldn’t see his face beneath the peak of the tweed cap. It was like listening to a mushroom.

  ‘Well, I think Dr Coulter saw him. She says she was coming into the foyer and heard you scream. She called out and that must have scared him off. He crashed past her, knocked her ass over applecart, and shot down the stairs. By the time she got her act together, he was gone. Jody, the kid from the switchboard, heard the fuss and found her staggering down the hall, bleeding.’ He stood up, his hands full of tobacco shreds. The nurse nodded towards a bin and he went over to deposit his contribution to the Keep America Clean campaign. ‘She’s a tough old bat, I’ll give her that. She told Jody to call us and then she collapsed.’

  ‘Is she all right? Is Dan all right?’

  ‘They’re fine,’ the nurse said, in a voice pitched for reassuring children and small animals. ‘Everything’s fine.’

  Stryker gave the nurse a pained look. ‘She’s got some bruises and a cut lip,’ he told Kate. ‘Stark’s okay, too – like I said, in surgery. But they figure it will take.’

  ‘It’s madness,’ Kate whispered. ‘Aiken’s tongue, Dan’s ear . . . it doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Monkeys,’ Stryker said, taking out another cigar.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Monkeys. You know? Speak no evil, hear no evil – like that. That’s what Dr Coulter said.’

  ‘Oh.’ She squinted at him. ‘Jane teaches folklore, you see,’ she tried to explain. ‘Folklore, the Bible, and Shakespeare. Not crime.’ It seemed very important that he understand, but he was going away, receding, moving towards a horizon which lay somewhere between herself and the white tiled wall. Or maybe further. ‘She would think of monkeys because of . . . what about see no evil?’ she whispered, suddenly, interrupting herself. She meant to yell, because he was getting so far away, but it came out in a rasp. It made her angry but she couldn’t get herself organised to protest. Maybe he was going to arrest her, this time. He looked angry enough. She mustn’t spit. She mustn’t. ‘What about eyes?’ She wanted to know because hers weren’t working. She couldn’t see a thing any more. And . . .

  Stryker came over to stand next to the examination table. Kate had drifted off into unconsciousness again. He raised a hand and with a hesitant finger touched the cut under her left eye. It was a long, shallow cut. ‘You have Dr Coulter to thank for your eyes, sweet Kate,’ he murmured, then stepped back quickly as the intern entered, bearing X-rays. ‘Well?’ Stryker barked, jamming his hands into his pockets and accidentally breaking the new cigar.

  The intern smiled. ‘No fracture, just concussion. We’ll keep her overnight for observation. She’ll have a headache for a few days, that’s all.’

  ‘She’s got a cut under her eye,’ Stryker said.

  The intern leaned over Kate’s unconscious form. ‘Oh, yeah. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘That’s what you think,’ Stryker growled, and went out. He was back a second later. ‘You should put something on it. It could get infected, a scratch like that, so close to her eye.’

  ‘We’ll clean it up. Don’t worry about it,’ the intern reassured him, a little peeved to get instructions from a somebody who probably didn’t know a scratch from his elbow.

  ‘If I want to worry about it, I’ll worry about it!’ Stryker yelled. ‘Put on some iodine, for God’s sake. Would it cost so much to put on some iodine?’ He went out, and the intern glanced at the nurse, who shrugged. They could hear Stryker’s voice diminishing as he went down the corridor, towards the lifts. ‘My God, you’d think they could afford iodine in a place like this. They got these dazzling rubber plants, they got those nifty magazine racks over there, they got ducky little coffee machines, and no iodine? Jeeeeezus!’

  After a moment, the lift doors slammed.

  Jane Coulter was smouldering in a hospital bed several floors above where Kate lay in Emergency. The doctors had insisted on keeping her overnight for ‘shock’.

  ‘I’m not in the least shocked,’ she informed Stryker. ‘I want to go home. Milly will be so upset. As it is I’ll probably have to eat baked custard and chicken broth for weeks. She treats me like an infant – claims I’m “delicate”. I ask you – do I look delicate?’

  ‘You look terrifying,’ Stryker grinned. ‘No wonder he ran the hell out of there.’

  Her grey hair was sticking up in indignant spikes all over her head, her pale blue eyes were flashing fire, and there was a bright circle of red high on each cheekbone. ‘I have a loud voice,’ she conceded, with a trace of smugness. ‘I developed it over the years lecturing in vast, drafty halls to bored students who couldn’t have cared less about the afflictions of Job or the meaning of Druidical symbols. You have to force it into them, you know. Like stuffing a turkey.’

  This homely allusion would have sat better on her if she hadn’t been puffing on Stryker’s last cigar. He pulled a chair over and sat down. ‘Tell me what you saw.’

  For the first time she looked uneasy. ‘I didn’t see much of anything. One cannot take in much about a cannonball as it comes at you. One minute the hall was empty, the next this figure came bursting out of Kate’s office and knocked me down. He ran off towards the fire stairs.’ She fixed him with a basilisk eye. ‘I could describe his shoes well enough, as he stepped on my hand. Would that be any help to you?’

  ‘Not much – unless he had his name printed on them.’

  ‘He didn’t. Or if he did, it was obscured by the filth adhering thereto. Very dirty shoes, they were. Like yours.’

  ‘Mine?’ Stryker looked down in surprise at his well-shined loafers.

  Jane Coulter leaned over slightly. ‘Oh – not those. The ones you were wearing on Saturday, I meant.’

  ‘Oh. You mean he was wearing sneakers?’

  ‘Leather sneakers.’

  ‘Track shoes, then. They’re called track shoes.’

  ‘I see. For making tracks, one presumes?’

  ‘Sort of.’ He regarded her carefully. She was talking about shoes because she didn’t want to talk about faces. He was certain of it. ‘Kate says she thought it was Richard Wayland in her office.’

  The flush on Jane Coulter’s cheeks deepened. ‘Did she see him? Actually see him?’

  ‘No. But she said she assumed it was he because he has a key to her office, you see.’

  ‘Ah. Well, most of the office keys are interchangeable – and the locks are really a joke. It was not Richard. It wasn’t anyone I know. The man was short, dark, heavy-set, and clean-shaven.’
Now the description came out, forcefully and clearly. ‘He had a very flat nose and full lips – he could have even been a pale-skinned negro.’ Less and less like Richard Wayland with every word.

  ‘I thought you didn’t see him clearly.’

  ‘I didn’t see the colour of his eyes, nor did I have a chance to count his teeth, I grant you.’ She sighed heavily. ‘I have been attempting to focus on him for you, Lieutenant, to imagine a photograph snapped as he came towards me. That is what I recall. And he smelled awful. That, too, I can remember. Unwashed. Dirty. Foetid.’

  ‘I see.’ He noted down the description, following it with a long string of question marks. ‘And can you remember anything else he was wearing?’

  ‘Something bright – ah, yes, I believe it is called a lumber jacket. Red plaid. And a baseball cap of some kind.’

  ‘Was he carrying anything in his hands?’

  ‘Not that I can recall.’

  ‘A knife, for instance? Papers, books?’

  ‘I didn’t notice.’ The colour was fading from her cheeks, now, and he saw that she really was very tired. He stood up.

  ‘Well, thank you, Dr Coulter. I think you’d better rest, now.’

  ‘What about Dan?’ she enquired anxiously.

  ‘They’ve brought him down from surgery,’ Stryker said.

  ‘And dear Kate?’

  ‘Fine. Concussion, that’s all.’

  ‘I see. The cut on her face . . .’ She seemed distressed. ‘So near the eyes . . .’

  ‘Your three monkeys theory?’ Stryker said. ‘I think it was just a cut she got when she fell, that’s all. You mustn’t worry about it.’

  ‘But you must worry about it. Lieutenant. There is some kind of madman out there, striking us down one by one . . .’

  ‘As you say, I must worry about it,’ Stryker said. ‘You must rest, or they’ll never let you out of here.’

  ‘Good Lord . . . what a thought. I shall behave.’

  ‘See that you do,’ he said, with mock severity. ‘And Dr Coulter – thank you.’

  ‘Am I a heroine?’ she asked.