Third Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “But the murders will end?”

  “Yes. Probably.”

  She looked at him narrowly.

  “But that’s not enough for you, is it? You want her punished.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Of course—if it can be done legally. But most of all I want the killings to stop. Edward, don’t you think you’re being vindictive?”

  He rose suddenly. “Think I’ll pour myself a brandy. Get you one?”

  “All right. A small one.”

  He brought their cognacs from the study, then settled back again into his worn armchair.

  “Why do you think I’m being vindictive?”

  “Your whole attitude. You want to catch this woman in the act, even if it means risking a man’s life. You want, above all, to see her punished for what she’s done. You want her to suffer. It’s really become an obsession with you. I don’t think you’d feel that strongly if the Hotel Ripper was a man. Then you’d be satisfied just to get him off the streets.”

  “Come on, Monica, what kind of bullshit is that? The next thing you’ll be saying is that I hate women.”

  “No, I’d never say that because I know it’s not true. Just the opposite. I think you have some very old-fashioned, romantic ideas about women. And because this particular woman has flouted those beliefs, those cherished ideals, you feel very vengeful toward her.”

  He took a swig of brandy. “Nonsense. I’ve dealt with female criminals before. Some of them killers.”

  “But none like Zoe Kohler—right? All the female murderers in your experience killed from passion or greed or because they were drunk or something like that. Am I correct?”

  “Well …” he said grudgingly, “maybe.”

  “You told me so yourself. But now you find a female killer who’s intelligent, plans well, kills coldly with no apparent motive, and it shatters all your preconceptions about women. And not only does it destroy your romantic fancies, but I think it scares you—in a way.”

  He was silent.

  “Because if a woman can act in this way, then you don’t know anything at all about women. Isn’t that what scares you? Now you’ve discovered that women are as capable as men. Capable of evil, in this case. But if that’s true; then they must also be as capable of good, of creativity, of invention and art. It’s upsetting all the prejudices you have and maybe even weren’t aware of. Suddenly you have to revise your thinking about women, all your old, ingrained opinions, and that can be a painful process. I think that’s why you want more than the killings ended. You want revenge against this woman who has caused such an upheaval in all your notions of what women are and how they should act.”

  “Thank you, doctor, for the fifty-cent analysis,” he said. “I’m not saying you’re completely wrong, but you are mistaken if you think I would have felt any differently if the Hotel Ripper was a man. You have to pay for your sins in this world, regardless of your sex.”

  “Edward, how long has it been since you’ve been to church.”

  “You mean for mass or confession? About thirty-five years.”

  “Well, you haven’t lost your faith.”

  “The good sisters beat it into me. But my faith, as you call it, has nothing to do with the church.”

  “No?”

  “No. I’m for civilization and against the swamp. It’s as simple as that.”

  “And that is simple. You believe in God, don’t you?”

  “I believe in a Supreme Being, whatever you want to call him, her, or it.”

  “You probably call it the Top Cop.”

  He laughed. “You’re not too far wrong. Well, the Top Cop has given us the word in a body of works called the law. Don’t tell me how rickety, inefficient, and leaky the law is; I know better than you. But it’s the best we’ve been able to come up with so far. Let’s hope it’ll be improved as the human race stumbles along. But even in the way it exists today, it’s the only thing that stands between civilization and the swamp. It’s a wall, a dike. And anyone who knocks a hole in the wall should be punished.”

  “And what about understanding? Compassion? Justice?”

  “The law and justice are not always identical, my dear. Any street cop can tell you that. In this case, I think both the law and justice would be best served if Zoe Kohler was put away for the rest of her life.”

  “And if New York still had the death penalty, you’d want her electrocuted, or hanged, or gassed, or shot?”

  “Yes.”

  July 25; Friday …

  Her pubic hair had almost totally disappeared; only a few weak wisps survived. And the hair on her legs and in her armpits had apparently ceased to grow. She had the feeling of being peeled, to end up as a skinless grape, a quivering jelly. Clothing rasped her tender skin.

  She took a cab to work that morning, not certain she had the strength to walk or push her way aboard a crowded bus. In the office, she was afraid she might drop the tray of coffee and pastries. Every movement was an effort, every breath a pain.

  “Did you bring it in, Zoe?” Everett Pinckney asked.

  She looked at him blankly. “What?”

  “The tear gas dispenser,” he said.

  She felt a sudden anguish in her groin. A needle. She knew her period was due in a day, but this was something different: a steel sliver. But she did not wince. She endured, expressionless.

  “I lost it,” she said in a low voice. “Or misplaced it. I can’t find it.”

  He was bewildered.

  “Zoe,” he said, “a thing like that—how could you lose it or misplace it?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “What am I going to do?” he asked helplessly. “The cop will come back. He’ll want to know. He’ll want to talk to you.”

  “All right,” she said, “I’ll talk to him. I just don’t have it.”

  He was not a man to bluster. He just stood, wavering …

  “Well …” he said, “all right,” and left her alone.

  The rest of the day vanished. She didn’t know where it went. She swam in agony, her body pulsing. She wanted to weep, cry out, claw her aching flesh from the bones. The world about her whirled dizzily. It would not stop.

  She walked home slowly, her steps faltering. Passersby were a streaming blur. The earth sank beneath her feet. She heard a roaring above the traffic din, smelled scorch, and in her mouth was a taste of old copper.

  She turned into the luncheonette, too weak to continue her journey.

  “Hullo, dearie,” the porky waitress said. “The usual?”

  Zoe nodded.

  “Wanna hear somepin nutty?” the waitress asked, setting a place for her. “Right after you was in here last night, a guy comes in and buys the iced tea glass you drank out of. Said he had glasses just like it at home, but his kid broke one, and he wanted to fill the set. Paid a dollar for it.”

  “The glass I used?”

  “Crazy, huh? Din even want a clean one. Just wrapped up the dirty glass in paper napkins and rushed out with it. Well, it takes all kinds …”

  “Was he tall and thin?” Zoe Kohler asked. “With a sour expression?”

  “Nah. He was tall all right, but a heavyset guy. Middle sixties maybe. Why? You know him?”

  “No,” Zoe said listlessly, “I don’t know him.”

  She was still thinking clearly enough to realize what had happened. Now they had her fingerprints. They would compare them with the prints on the wineglass she left at the Tribunal. They would be sure now. They would come for her and kill her.

  She left her food uneaten. She headed home with stumbling steps. The pains in her abdomen were almost shrill in their intensity.

  She wondered if her period had started. She had not inserted a tampon and feared to look behind her; perhaps she was leaving a spotted trail on the sidewalk. And following the spoor came the thin, dour man, nose down and sniffing. A true bloodhound.

  At home, she locked and bolted her door, put on the chain. She looked wearily abou
t her trig apartment. She had always been neat. Her mother never had to tell her to tidy her room.

  “A place for everything and everything in its place,” her mother was fond of remarking.

  She slipped shoes from her shrunken feet. She sat upright in a straight chair in the living room, hands folded primly on her lap. She watched dusk, twilight, darkness seep into the silent room.

  Perhaps she fainted, dozed, dreamed; it was impossible to know. She saw a deserted landscape. Nothing there but gray smoke curling.

  Then, as it thinned to fog, vapor, she saw a cracked and bloodless land. A jigsaw of caked mud. Craters and crusted holes venting steam. A barren world. No life stirring.

  How long she sat there, her mind intent on this naked vision, she could not have said. Yet when her telephone rang, she rose, quite sane, turned on the light, picked up the phone. The lobby attendant: could Mr. Mittle come up?

  She greeted Ernie with a smile, almost as happy as his. They kissed, and he told her she was getting dreadfully thin, and he would have to fatten her up. She touched his cheek lovingly, so moved was she by his concern.

  The white wine he carried was already chilled. She brought a corkscrew and glasses from the kitchen. They sat close together on the couch. They clinked glasses and looked into each other’s eyes.

  “How do you feel, darling?” he asked anxiously.

  “Better now,” she said. “You’re here.”

  He groaned with pleasure, kissed her poor, shriveled fingers.

  He prattled on about his computer class, his job, their vacation plans. She smiled and nodded, nodded and smiled, searching his face. And all the time …

  “Well,” he said briskly, slapping one knee as if they had come to the moment of decision in an important business haggle, “have you thought about it, Zoe? Will you marry me?”

  “Ernie, are you sure … ?”

  He rose and began to stalk about the dimly lighted room, carrying his wineglass.

  “I certainly am sure,” he said stoutly. “Zoe, I know this is the most important decision of my life, and I’ve considered it very carefully. Yes, I’m sure. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. No two ways about that! I know I don’t have a great deal to offer you, but still … Love—you know? And a promise to work hard at making you happy.”

  “I have nothing to offer,” she said faintly. “Less than nothing.”

  “Don’t say that,” he cried.

  He sat down again at her side. He put his glass on the cocktail table. He held her bony shoulders.

  “Don’t say that, darling,” he said tenderly. “You have all I want. You are all I want. I just don’t want to live without you. Say Yes.”

  She stared at him, and through his clear, hopeful features saw again that sere, damned landscape, the gray smoke curling.

  “All right,” she said in a low voice. “Yes.”

  “Oh, Zoe!” he said, clasped her to him, kissed her closed eyes, her dry lips. She put her arms softly about him, felt his warmth, his aliveness.

  He moved her away.

  “When?” he demanded. “When?”

  She smiled. “Whenever you say, dear.”

  “As soon as possible. The sooner the better. Listen, I’ve been thinking about it, planning it, and I’ll tell you what I think would be best. If you don’t agree, you tell me—all right? I mean, this is just my idea, and you might have some totally different idea on how we should do it, and if you do, I want you to tell me. Zoe? All right?”

  “Of course, Ernie.”

  “Well, I thought a small, quiet wedding. Just a few close friends. Unless you want your parents here?”

  “Oh no.”

  “And I don’t want my family. Mostly because they can’t afford to make the trip. Unless you want to go to Minnesota for the wedding?”

  “No, let’s have it here. A few close friends.”

  “Right,” he said enthusiastically. “And the money we save, we can spend on the, uh, you know, honeymoon. Just a small ceremony. If you like, we could have a reception afterward at my place or here at your place. Or we could rent a room at a hotel or restaurant. What do you think?”

  “Let’s keep it small and quiet,” she said. “Not make a big, expensive fuss. We could have it right here.”

  “Maybe we could have it catered,” he said brightly. “It wouldn’t cost so much. You know, just a light buffet, sandwiches maybe, and champagne. Like that.”

  “I think that would be plenty,” she said firmly. “Keep it short and simple.”

  “Exactly,” he said, laughing gleefully. “Short and simple. See? We’re agreeing already! Oh Zoe, we’re going to be so happy.”

  He embraced her again. She gently disengaged herself to fill their wineglasses: They tinked rims in a solemn toast.

  “We’ve got so much to do,” he said nervously. “We’ve got to sit down together and make out lists. You know—schedules and who to invite and the church and all. And when we should—”

  “Ernie,” she said, putting a palm to his hot cheek, “do you really love me?”

  “I do!” he groaned, turning his face to kiss her palm. “I really do. More than anything or anyone in my life.”

  “And I love you,” Zoe Kohler said. “You’re the kindest man I’ve ever known. The sweetest and nicest. I want to be with you always.”

  “Always,” he vowed. “Always together.”

  She brought her face close, looked deep into his eyes.

  “Darling,” she said softly, “do you remember when we talked about—uh—you know—going to bed together? Sex?”

  “Yes. I remember.”

  “We agreed there had to be love and tenderness and understanding.”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Or it was just nothing. Like animals. We said that, Ernie—remember?”

  “Of course. That’s the way I feel.”

  “I know you do, dear. And I do, too. Well, if we love each other and we’re going to get married, couldn’t we … ?”

  “Oh Zoe,” he said. “Oh my darling. You mean now? Tonight?”

  “Why not?” she said. “Couldn’t we? It’s all right, isn’t it?”

  “Of course it’s all right. It’s wonderful, marvelous, just great. Because we do love each other and we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together.”

  “You’re sure?” she said. “You won’t be, uh, offended?”

  “How can you think that? It’ll be sweet. So sweet. It’ll be right.”

  “Oh yes,” she breathed. “It will be right. I feel it. Don’t you feel it, darling?”

  He nodded dumbly.

  “Let’s go into the bedroom,” she whispered. “Bring the wine. You get undressed and get into bed: I have to go into the bathroom for a few minutes, but I’ll be right out.”

  “Is the front door locked?” he said, his voice choked.

  “Darling,” she said, kissing his lips. “My sweetheart. My lover.”

  She took her purse into the bathroom. She closed and locked the door. She undressed slowly. When she was naked, she inspected herself. She had not yet begun to bleed.

  She waited a few moments, seated on the closed toilet seat. Finally she rose, opened the knife, held it in her right hand. She draped a towel across her forearm. She did not look at herself in the medicine cabinet mirror.

  She unlocked the door. She peeked out. The bedside lamp was on. Ernest Mittle was lying on his back, hands clasped behind his head. The sheet was drawn up to his waist. His torso was white, hairless, shiny.

  He turned his head to look toward her.

  “Darling,” she called with a trilly laugh, “look away. I’m embarrassed.”

  He smiled and rolled onto his side, away from her. She crossed the carpeted floor quickly, suddenly strong, suddenly resolute. She bent over him. The towel dropped away.

  “Oh lover,” she breathed.

  The blade went into soft cheese. His body leaped frantically, but with her left hand and knee she pressed him
down. The knife caught on something in his neck, but she sawed determinedly until it sliced through.

  Out it went, the blood, in a spray, a fountain, a gush. She held him down until his threshings weakened and ceased. Then he just flowed, and she tipped the torn head over the edge of the bed to let him drain onto the rug.

  She rolled him back. She pulled the sodden sheet down. She raised the knife high to complete her ritual. But her hand faltered, halted, came slowly down. She could not do it. Still, she murmured, “There, there, there,” as she headed for the bathroom.

  She tossed the bloodied knife aside. She inspected herself curiously. Only her hands, right arm, and left knee were stained and glittering.

  She showered in hot water, lathering thickly with her imported soap. She rinsed, lathered again, rinsed again. She stepped from the tub and made no effort to wash away the pink tinge on the porcelain.

  She dried thoroughly, then used her floral-scented cologne and a deodorant spray. She combed her hair quickly. She powdered neck, shoulders, armpits, the insides of her shrunken thighs.

  It took her a few moments to find the Mexican wedding dress she had bought long ago and had never worn. She pulled it over her head. The crinkled cotton slid down over her naked flesh with a whisper.

  The gown came to her blotched ankles, hung as loosely as a tent. But it was a creamy white, unblemished, as pure and virginal as the pinafores she had worn when she was Daddy’s little girl and all her parents’ friends had said she was “a real little lady.”

  Ernest Mittle’s engagement ring twisted on her skinny finger. Working carefully, so as not to cut herself, she snipped a thin strip of Band-Aid. This she wound around and around the back part of the ring.

  Then, when she worked it on, the fattened ring hung and stuck to her finger. It would never come loose.

  She went into the kitchen, opened the cabinet door. In her pharmacopeia she found a full container of sleeping pills and a few left in another. She took both jars and a bottle of vodka into the bedroom. She set them carefully on the floor alongside the bed.

  She checked the front door to make certain it was locked, bolted, and chained. Then she turned out all the lights in the apartment. Moving cautiously, she found her way back to the bedroom.