“Yes,” he said seriously, “that’s so. But not her. For her it’s painful.”
“Painful? It hurts? You hurt her?”
“Oh no, Berthe. No, no, no. You know me better than that. But I think it’s a kind of punishment for her. That’s how she sees it.”
“Punishment for what? Has she done something?”
“Such a question. How would I know?”
“Come, let’s eat.”
They went into the dining room. It was full of shadows.
“I don’t think she’s done something,” he tried to explain. “I mean, she doesn’t want punishment because she feels guilty. I think she feels unworthy.”
“My husband the psychologist.”
“Well, that’s what I think it is,” he repeated stubbornly. “She comes every month for an examination she doesn’t need and that she hates. It’s punishment for her unworthiness. That’s how she gets her gratification.”
“Sha,” his wife said. “Put your cigar down and eat your soup.”
The cramps were bad. None of her pills helped. The pain came from deep within her, in waves. It wrenched her gut, twisted her inside. It was a giant hand, clawing, yanking this way and that, turning her over. She wanted to scream.
She left work early on Wednesday night, April 9th. Mr. Pinckney was sympathetic when she told him the cause.
“Take tomorrow off,” he said. “We’ll manage.”
“Oh no,” she said. “I’ll be all right tomorrow.”
She went directly home and drew a bath as hot as she could endure. She soaked for an hour, running in more hot water as the tub cooled. She searched for telltale stains, but the water remained clear; her menses had not yet started.
She swallowed an assortment of vitamins and minerals before she dressed. She didn’t care what Dr. Stark said; she was convinced they were helping her survive. And she sipped a glass of white wine while she dressed. The cramps had diminished to a dull, persistent throbbing.
She regretted the necessity of going up to the Filmore on West 72nd Street to put on makeup and don her new strawberry blond wig. But she didn’t want to risk the danger of having her neighbors and doorman see her transformed.
Also, there was a risk of going directly from her apartment house to the Hotel Coolidge. The cabdriver might remember. A circuitous route was safer.
She had selected the Coolidge because the hotel trade magazine, in its directory of conventions and sales meetings, had listed the Coolidge as hosting two conventions and a political gathering on the night of April 9th. It was an 840-room hotel on Seventh Avenue and 50th Street. Close enough to Times Square to get a lot of walk-in business in its cocktail lounges and dining rooms.
She wore fire-engine-red nylon lingerie embroidered with small hearts, sheer pantyhose with a reddish tint, her evening sandals with their “hookers’ heels.” The dress, tightly fitted, was a bottle-green silk so dark it was almost black. It shimmered, and was skimpy as a slip, suspended from her smooth shoulders by spaghetti straps.
Two hours later she was seated alone at a small banquette in the New Orleans Room of the Hotel Coolidge. Her trenchcoat was folded on the seat beside her. She was smoking a cigarette and sipping a glass of white wine. She did not turn her head, but her eyes were never still.
It was a small, dimly lighted room, half-filled. A three-piece band played desultory jazz from a raised platform in one corner. It was all relatively quiet, relaxed. Zoe Kohler wondered if she might do better in the Gold Coast Room.
Most of the men who entered were in twos and threes, hatless and coatless, but bearing badges on the lapels of their suit jackets. They invariably headed directly for the bar. There were a few couples at the small tables, but not many.
Shortly after 11:00 P.M., a single man came to the entrance of the New Orleans Room. He stood a moment, looking about.
Come to me, Zoe Kohler willed. Come to me.
He glanced in her direction, hesitated, then moved casually toward the wall of banquettes.
Lover, she thought, not looking at him.
He slid behind the table next to hers. She pulled her shoulder bag and trenchcoat closer. The cocktail waitress came over and he ordered a bourbon and water. His voice was a deep, resonant baritone.
He was tall, more than six feet, hunched, and almost totally bald. He wore rimless spectacles. His features were pleasant enough, his cheeks somewhat pitted. The backs of his hands were badly scarred. He wore the ubiquitous name-badge on his breast pocket. Zoe caught a look at it. HELLO! CALL ME JERRY.
They sat at their adjoining tables. She ordered another glass of wine, he another bourbon. They did not speak nor look in each other’s direction. Finally …
“I beg your pardon,” he said, leaning toward her.
She turned to look coldly at him. He blushed, up into his bald head. He seemed about to withdraw.
“Uh, I, ah, uh, wondered if I could ask you a personal question?”
“You may ask,” she said severely. “I may or may not answer.”
“Uh,” he said, gulping, “that dress you’re wearing … It’s so beautiful. I want to bring my wife a present from New York, and she’d look great in that.” He added hastily, “Not as good as you do, of course, but I wondered where you bought it, and if …” His voice trailed away.
She smiled at him.
“Thank you—” She peered closer at his badge as if seeing it for the first time. “Thank you, Jerry, but I’m sorry to tell you that the shop where I bought it has gone out of business.”
“Oh,” he said, “that’s too bad. But listen, maybe you can suggest a store where I can buy something nice.”
Now they had turned to face each other. He kept lifting his eyes from her shoulders and cleavage, and then his eyes would slide down again.
They talked awhile, exploring. He was from Little Rock, Arkansas, and was regional manager for a chain of fast-food restaurants that sold chicken-fried steaks and was about to go the franchise route.
She touched the scars on the backs of his hands.
“What happened?” she asked. “A war wound?”
“Oh no,” he said, laughing for the first time. He had a nice, sheepish laugh. “A stove caught fire. They’ll heal. Eventually.”
“My name’s Irene,” she said softly.
He bought them two more rounds of drinks. By that time, she had moved her coat and shoulder bag to her other side, and he was sitting beside her, at her table. She pressed her thigh against his. He drew his leg hastily away. Then it came back.
The New Orleans Room had filled up, every table taken. Patrons were standing two and three deep at the bar. The jazz trio was playing with more verve, music blasting. The distracted waitresses were scurrying about. Zoe Kohler was reassured; no one would remember her.
“Noisy in here,” Jerry said, looking about fretfully. “We can’t rightly talk.”
“Where are you staying, Jerry?” she asked.
“What?” he said. “Snow again; I don’t get your drift.”
She put her lips close to his ear. Close enough to touch. She repeated her question.
“Why, uh, right here in the hotel,” he said, shaken. “The fourteenth floor.”
“Have anything to drink in your room?”
“I got most of a pint of sippin’ whiskey,” he said, staring at her. “Bourbon.”
She put her lips to his ear again.
“Couldn’t we have a party?” she whispered. Her tongue darted.
“I’ve never done anything like this before,” he said hoarsely. “I swear, I never have.”
There was one other couple in the automatic elevator, but they got off on the ninth floor. Jerry and Irene rode the rest of the way alone.
“Notice they got no thirteenth floor?” he said nervously. “It goes from twelve to fourteen. I guess they figure no one would want a room on the thirteenth. Bad luck. But I’m on the fourteenth which is really the thirteenth. Makes no never-mind to me.”
She put a hand on his arm.
“You’re sweet,” she said.
“No kidding?” he said, pleased.
Inside his room, the door locked, he insisted on showing her wallet photographs of his wife, his home, his Labrador retriever, named Boots. Zoe looked at what she thought were a dumpy blonde, a naked development house with no landscaping, and a beautiful dog.
“Jerry, you’re a very lucky man,” she said, handling the photos by the edges.
“Don’t I know it!”
“Children?”
“No,” he said shortly. “No children. Not yet.”
She thought he was in his late thirties, maybe forty. No children. That was too bad. But his widow would remarry. Zoe was sure of it; she had that look.
He rummaged in his open suitcase and came up with an almost full pint bottle of bourbon.
“Voilá” he said, pronouncing it, “Viola.” Zoe didn’t know if he was making a joke or not.
“I think I’ll skip,” she said. “All that white wine has got me a tiny bit tipsy. But you go right ahead.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He poured a small shot into a water glass. His hand was trembling; the bottle neck rattled against the rim of the glass.
“Listen,” he said, not looking at her, “I told you I’ve never done anything like this before, and that’s God’s own truth. I got to be honest with you; I don’t know whether you …”
He looked at her helplessly.
She went over to him, held him by the arms, smiled up at him.
“I know what you’re wondering,” she said. “You’re wondering if I want money and if you should pay me before or after. Isn’t that so?”
He nodded dumbly.
“Jerry,” she said gently, “I’m not a professional, if that’s what you think. I just enjoy being here with you. If a man wants to give me a little gift later because he’s had such a good time …”
“Oh sure, Irene,” he said swallowing. “I understand.”
“You’ve got a radio?” she said briskly. “Turn on the radio. Let’s get this show on the road.”
He turned on the bedside radio. The station was playing disco.
“Wow,” she said, snapping her fingers, “that’s great. Do you like to dance?”
He took a gulp of bourbon.
“I’m not very good at it,” he said.
“Then I’ll dance by myself,” she said.
She began to move about the room, dipping, swaying, her hips moving. Her arms were extended overhead, fingers still snapping. She bowed, writhed, twisted, twirled. Her heels caught in the heavy shag rug. A shoulder strap slipped off and hung loose.
He sat on the edge of the bed, touching the bourbon to his lips, and watched her with wondering eyes.
“Too many clothes,” she said. In time to the music, she sashayed over to him, turned her back, and motioned. “Open me up,” she commanded.
Obediently, he drew her back zipper down. It hissed. She slid off the remaining strap, let her dress fall, stepped out. She tossed it onto a chair.
She stood there a moment, facing him, in her heart-flecked lingerie, reddish pantyhose, high heels. They stared at each other. Then the music changed to a tango. She began to swoop and glide about the room.
“I swear to God,” he said, his voice a croak, “this is the damndest thing that ever happened to me. Irene, you are one beautiful lady. I just can’t believe it.”
“You better believe it,” she said, laughing. “It’s true.”
She continued dancing for him until the music ended. An announcer came on, talking about motor oil. Zoe Kohler took off her sandals, wiggled out of her pantyhose. Jerry was staring at the floor.
“Jerry,” she said.
He raised his head, looked at her.
“You like?” she said, posing with hands on her waist, weight on one leg. She cocked her head quizzically.
He nodded. He looked frightened and miserable. She went over to him, stood close, between his legs. She pressed his head between her palms, pulled his face into her soft, scented belly.
“You get out of all those clothes, honey,” she said throatily. “I have to go make wee-wee. Be back in a minute.”
She took her shoulder bag and headed for the bathroom. She glanced back, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was staring at the floor again.
She made her usual preparations, thinking that he was a difficult one. He didn’t come on. He was troubled. He had no confidence. That wasn’t fair.
She came out of the bathroom naked, towel draped over her right forearm and hand. “Here I am!” she said gaily.
He wasn’t lying naked under the sheet. He had taken off only his jacket and vest, had loosened his tie and opened his collar. He was still sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched over, elbows on knees. He was turning his glass around and around in his scarred hands. Now it was filled with whiskey, almost to the brim.
When he heard her voice, he turned to look over his shoulder.
“Good lord a’mighty,” he said with awe.
She came over to the bed, on the other side. She kneeled behind him. With her left hand, she pulled him gently back until he was leaning against her, pressing her breasts, stomach, thighs.
“Jerry,” she said, “what’s wrong?”
He groaned. “Irene, this is no good. I just can’t do it. I’m sorry, but I can’t. Listen, I’ll give you money. I hate wasting your time like this. But when I think of my little girl waiting at home for me, I just can’t …”
“Shh, shh,” she said soothingly. She put the soft palm of her left hand on his brow and drew his head back toward her, between her breasts. “Don’t think about that. Don’t think about a thing.”
She let the towel fall free. She plunged the point of the knife blade below his left ear and pulled it savagely to the right, tugging when it caught.
His body leaped convulsively off the bed. Glass fell. Drink spilled. He went flopping to the floor, limbs flailing.
That wasn’t what surprised her. The shock was the fountain of blood, the giant spurt, the wild gush. It had gone out so far that gobbets had hit the wall and were beginning to drip downward.
She watched those trickles for a brief moment, fascinated. Then she scrambled across the bed and stood astride him, bent over. He was still threshing, limbs twitching, eyelids fluttering.
He was clothed, but it made no difference. She didn’t want to see that knobbed thing, that club. She drove the blade through his clothing into his testicles, with the incantation, “There. There. There.”
After a while she straightened up, looked about dully. Nothing had changed. She heard, dimly, traffic sounds from Seventh Avenue. An airliner droned overhead. Someone passed in the outside corridor; a man laughed. Next door, a toilet flushed.
She looked down at Jerry. He was gone, his life soaked into the carpet. The bedside radio was still playing. Disco again. She went into the bathroom for sheets of toilet paper before she handled the radio knob, stopping the music.
She was so careful.
4
EDWARD X. DELANEY FOUND himself obsessed with the puzzle of the two hotel deaths. He tried to turn his mind to other concerns, to keep himself busy. Inevitably, his thoughts returned to the murder of the two men: how it was done, why it was done, who might have done it.
Sighing, he surrendered to the challenge of the mystery, put his feet on his desk, smoked a cigar, and stared at the far wall.
Everything in his cop’s instinct and experience told him it was the work of a criminal psychopath, a crazy, a nut. It was almost hopeless to try to imagine a motive. But it didn’t seem to be greed; nothing had been stolen.
On impulse, he searched through the pages of an annual diary and appointment book, looking for the section that listed phases of the moon. There was no connection between the full moon and the dates of the slayings. He slammed the desk drawer in disgust.
The problem was, there was no
brilliantly deductive way to approach a case in which a random killer selected victims by chance and murdered for apparently no reason. There was no handle, nowhere to start.
Because, Delaney told himself, he had nothing better to do, he wrote out dossiers of the two victims, trying to recall everything Sergeant Abner Boone had told him. Then he headed a third sheet: Perpetrator.
He pored over the known facts about the two victims, trying to find a link, a connection. He found nothing other than what he had mentioned to Boone: they were both middle-aged men, visitors to New York, staying at midtown hotels. That, he knew, meant next to nothing. But in his meticulous way, he made a careful note of it.
The sheet of paper devoted to the killer had few notations:
1. Could be male or female.
2. Wears black nylon wig.
3. Clever; careful; crafty if not intelligent.
Just writing all this down gave him a certain satisfaction. It brought a solution no closer, he knew, but it was a start in bringing order and form to a chaotic enigma. It was the only way he knew to apply logic to solving a crime born of abnormal motives and an irrational mentality.
He was back in his study again, on the morning of March 21st, ruminating about the case.
He was playing with the idea that perhaps the two victims, George T. Puller and Frederick Wolheim, had, at some time in their business careers, employed the same man, and had fired this man, for whatever reasons.
Then, years later, the discharged employee, his resentment turned to homicidal fury, had sought out his two former employers and slashed them to death. A fanciful notion, the Chief acknowledged, but not impossible. In fact, not farfetched at all.
He was still considering this possibility and how it might be checked out when his phone rang. He reached for it absently.
“Edward X. Delaney here,” he said.
“Chief, this is Boone,” the sergeant said. “I thought you’d like to know … I did what you said: took a Crime Scene Unit man back to the room at the Hotel Pierce where Wolheim was chilled. We took measurements on that armchair where the two black nylon hairs were found.”
“And?”
Third Deadly Sin Page 12
