*
He did tie the boy up with a tie—or rather, with two ties. Two of his fine silk ties. It made him mad to do it, but there was no alternative. Before he tied him up, however, he made him strip; first because he thought that the boy, without clothes, couldn’t get away, even if he managed to untie himself, and second because if, as Smith had said, he did want to pee, at least he’d be able to.
The boy naked was even more weak and thin than he had seemed dressed, and his skin was white, and very dry, and flaky. Fred tried to avoid touching him as he tied him up; when he did, unavoidably, once or twice, the feel of that dry flaky skin made him shiver with disgust. He tied the hands very securely in front of the boy; the feet he left slightly freer. When he had finished he filled up the wash basin with cold water.
He said, ‘You can drink if you want to, and you can pee to your heart’s content.’
Smith nodded. ‘Fine. I’ll see you around ten then.’
‘Yeah,’ Fred said.
He locked the bathroom door from the outside, put the key in his pocket, and put the boy’s clothes in a closet.
Then carefully, remembering that Lenore was somewhere in the block, he left the apartment.
*
He had, during the day, to decide two things, he realized. One was what he already knew he had to decide—i.e. what to do about Smith—but the second only occurred to him as he was walking down the street, away from the apartment. And the second problem was: what to do about Bob. He guessed that Bob wouldn’t go to the apartment any more, now that he had finally decided to quit their partnership—or at any rate, he wouldn’t go today, since he had been on duty last night, and had almost certainly, after he had called to warn him about Lenore, gone to bed. On the other hand, he just might; if not today, then tomorrow sometime. And if he discovered Smith there—what would he do?
It was a difficult problem, and throughout the day Fred tossed and turned the advantages and disadvantages of telling him about Smith, and asking his advice, and not telling him anything, and dealing with Smith himself.
But since, by six o’clock that evening, he still hadn’t decided what to do about Bob, he put the matter aside temporarily, and turned his attention exclusively to the problem of Smith.
He thought about Smith as logically and rationally as he had told himself he must; and by the time he came off duty he had more or less made up his mind.
Earlier, he had been taken off balance by Smith’s craziness, and his seeming eagerness to be killed. The idea had seemed monstrous to him, and insane. But now, being quite cold and objective about it, he saw that killing him was, in fact, the only solution; unless he wanted to run the risk of losing his apartment, his job, and everything he lived for. He was equally clear about how he would kill him. That night, late, he would untie the boy, dress him, and get him out of the building without, somehow, the doorman seeing them. Then he would walk him a few blocks uptown—maybe to the park behind the Natural History Museum. Then, making sure that no one was about, or could see them, with his bread-knife, which he would have taken before he left the apartment, he would cut himself slightly; on the hand, or arm, or somewhere. And then he would shoot Smith. He would quickly put the boy’s dead hand on the handle of the bread-knife, and then call for help. He would say he had been going uptown for some reason after he had come off duty, and had realized, when he was in the subway, that he was being followed. He had got off the train at Eighty-First Street, suspecting by now who his follower might be, and thinking to lead him into a trap. He had wandered round for a while, and then had gone into the park behind the Natural History Museum. And there he had suddenly lost sight of his pursuer—who was nothing if not clever. And he had very nearly been caught in his own trap. Because after he had been in the park for about an hour, just hanging around, he had decided that maybe he had been mistaken, after all, and had decided to go home. But he was just walking out of the park when this guy had suddenly jumped out from behind a tree with a knife in his hand. Well, maybe because, even though he had given up waiting, he was still half expecting, half prepared for an attack, he had been quick enough to lift an arm and to defend himself. The knife had cut his arm, but he had managed to wrestle it out of his attacker’s grasp. And then—he had shot him.
And that would be that. He would be a hero, the papers would have their cop-killer, and his apartment, his life, would be safe. The only thing that could go wrong would be if someone saw him walking Smith up to the Museum, and remembered him if his photo was in the papers. But with any luck it would still be snowing tonight, and there wouldn’t be too many people in the street. Those there were he and Smith could hide from in doorways—they would walk up Columbus Avenue rather than Central Park West, which had few if any unattended doorways—and that way, anyone who was aware of them would hurry past, or even cross the street, thinking the lurking figures to be muggers, waiting for a victim.
He would, he thought, gag Smith, and put a scarf over his mouth, in case he said anything, or shouted for help. Though somehow, frighteningly, he didn’t think that Smith would say anything, or shout for help. Rather, he would silently, slimily, gleefully, take part in the game; right up to the very end….
*
He was feeling so calm that night, so sure of himself as he walked out of the blessedly heavy, driving snow into the warmth of his lobby, that he knew nothing could, or would, go wrong; and already the problem of Smith, like a leaking fawcet that a plumber was on his way to fix, was fading from his mind. The whole matter was resolved, apart from a few messy particulars, and already he was beginning to look forward to, and finally anticipate with pleasure, the post-Smith and post-Bob period of his life; when he was threatened from neither within nor without, and when his apartment would be secret again, and entirely his. Maybe, he told himself as he took the elevator up, Smith was a sort of final initiation rite he had to undergo before ultimately being judged pure enough and strong enough to enter into full possession of the kingdom of heaven. And, he told himself, he was pure and strong enough. There was no doubt in his mind at all. He even welcomed this final trial….
*
But when he went into the apartment, what he had discounted as being most unlikely, and what he would have so terribly feared if he had considered it a real possibility, had happened. And that was that Bob had come to the apartment; and was sitting in the living room, his handsome face absolutely racked, transfigured with pity, listening to a white, flaky, naked Smith, a Smith with a bruised face and a superior, sickening smile, tell him how he had killed six cops.
Fred took the whole scene in at a glance, and didn’t allow himself—he couldn’t; he had to keep all his wits about him for this new, unexpected, and dreadful turn of events—even a moment of panic or despair at seeing all his perfect plans vanish into thin air.
He stood massively in the door of the room and said primly to Bob, ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you.’
‘I—’ Bob cleared his throat; he was so obviously overcome with emotion, with this chance of playing, at last, Jesus himself, that he could hardly speak, ‘I thought that I’d come and pick up my things before I went on duty. You know—now that Lenore’s back—and especially since she’s got these friends here—I thought this would be the last time. And now—Christ Fred, what are we going to do?’
Fred noted, with just a grain of satisfaction, that Bob at least had the sense to see that there was a problem here, and wasn’t —yet, at any rate—prepared to play Jesus to the extent of sacrificing himself, his marriage, his job, and his almost ex-partner, by turning Smith in. He even wondered, briefly, whether the pity on Bob’s face was for Smith or for himself. A bit of both, he guessed.
‘How the hell do I know,’ he muttered; careful not to look at Smith, in case he should see any sign of joy at the fix in which he had placed his captor. ‘I’ve been thinking all day. How did you get into the bathroom?’
‘I saw there was a light on in there, and heard someone movin
g about. I thought it was you. So I asked, and then—all the keys in all the bathrooms are the same.’
Fred nodded. It had been a ridiculous question, and he wasn’t remotely interested in Bob’s answer. It didn’t matter how he had found Smith. The fact was, he had. And that was that. He looked down at his seated partner and murmured, ‘It’s time for you to go Bob. I’ll deal with this.’
Obediently, Bob stood up; but he said, ‘How?’
Fred made a motion with his head towards the corridor. Bob walked past him frowning, and waited, until Fred had closed the door of the living room, locked it behind him, and ordered him into the kitchen.
He went.
‘First of all,’ Fred said, ‘that kid isn’t the cop-killer. He’s never killed anyone in his life. Unless—’ he paused —‘maybe that last one—Petrie—was his. Maybe he killed once—I don’t know why—and now feels so guilty he wants to confess to the lot. Or maybe he wants some sort of sick glory. I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure he’s never killed anyone. He’s just some sort of nut. A freak. And he found out about this place and—I dunno. I mean—he’s crazy. But he’s not the cop-killer. I’m sure of that.’
‘How can you be sure?’ Bob asked—almost wistfully. He wanted Smith to be the killer, Fred guessed; so he could have, at last, an object worthy of his compassion?
‘I feel it. And if he’s not the cop-killer, I’m not taking him in so he can tell the world about—all this. And you can’t want him to, either.’
Bob, dolefully, shook his head.
‘The second thing is,’ Fred went on, ‘even if he is—which he’s not—the killer—I still don’t see why we should lose all this.’
Bob merely nodded.
‘So first I gotta find out exactly who he is, and what he wants, and second think what to do about him—without getting us involved.’
‘But how—?’
Fred looked into Bob’s eyes, into his sad brown cow eyes, and wondered whether he would stand for murder. Probably he would, he thought. But if he did, it would only mean putting himself more completely in his power. Bob’s knowledge of the apartment in the future, when he was no longer a partner, would be bad enough; but if Bob knew him to be a murderer
as well, he would be his prisoner forever. A prisoner of pity….
No. He couldn’t kill Smith. Not any more. As well as which, there was also the possibility that Bob wouldn’t stand for murder. He would do nothing to prevent it, and might even, dumbly, weeping invisibly for the sorrows of the world, encourage it. But then, when it was done, he might just tell the whole story. Oh no. He couldn’t trust Bob.
He said, ‘I’ll find some way. Don’t you worry.’
Bob stood there, frowning, looking at the floor, clearly thinking along the same lines as Fred himself. But, just as clearly, he wasn’t going to commit himself, even with a glance, to any course of action which he might, later, regret; or which he might, later, be accused by Fred of having approved. He would let, his stance and frown seemed to say, Fred take any action he thought right, and then he and his conscience would deal with it as they thought right. He had been presented with the favourite gift of the sanctimonious, a moral dilemma, and by God he was going to follow it through to the end, even if—especially if?—it did mean he would end up being crucified, and having to torture himself for his refusal to take a stand when he could have, and when he should have.
‘Okay,’ he murmured.
He didn’t meet Fred’s eyes again, not even for a second, until he had left the apartment. But he was so obviously sighing within, wanting Fred—and the weeping angels—to be aware of his anguish, that Fred, in spite of himself, couldn’t help saying again ‘don’t you worry’—even while he felt that he had never despised anyone as much as he despised Bob in this moment.
As soon as he had closed the door behind him, however, he put him out of his mind, and forced himself to concentrate on Smith again, and what he was going to do about him. He thought perhaps the best thing to do would be to ask the boy himself, since he seemed, after all, the person most eager to have his fate settled.
When he unlocked the door of the living room Smith, who was sitting in one of the armchairs, gave a little smile. ‘I’m sorry,’ he drawled, ‘that was a mistake.’
Fred said nothing.
‘I didn’t know about him. I mean—I thought this place was all yours.’
‘It is.’
‘I couldn’t believe it when he opened the door of the bathroom.’
Fred still said nothing—but when Smith curled his upper lip in an expression of disdain and murmured, ‘Who is he?’ he did feel, for the first time, that the boy wasn’t completely mad.
‘When I bought this place I didn’t have enough money to go into it by myself,’ Fred said. He didn’t want to tell Smith that the apartment had been Bob’s idea; that without Bob he wouldn’t now—and nor would Smith himself—be here.
‘This sort of changes everything,’ Smith said, sounding disappointed now, and dejected.
‘He won’t do anything.’
Smith shrugged, and pouted. ‘It still changes everything. Doesn’t it?’
‘I don’t know. I guess so,’ Fred said, trying to sound more confident and aggressive than he felt.
He started pacing awkwardly up and down the room, ill at ease.
‘Perhaps,’ Smith said, ‘you better just give me back my clothes and let me go.’
Fred stopped pacing. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’
The boy looked thoughtful. ‘You’re sure he won’t do anything, or say anything?’
‘Not yet,’ Fred said. ‘Not unless—’ He now shrugged. ‘Did you tell him how you got here?’
‘I told him I saw you and I knew you were the right person to confess to.’ Smith smiled. ‘He said he understood.’
‘I bet.’
‘He did.’
‘Yeah. I bet he did,’ Fred repeated bitterly. ‘I believe you.’
There was a moment’s silence; then Smith, pouting again, whined, ‘Fuck. You might have told me.’
‘I didn’t think he would show up here. I’m buying out his share of the place.’
‘I just never expected it of you.’
Fred sat down in the other chair and looked at the bare wall of the room. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘I don’t know. I mean—I think if everything has changed you should let me go. But otherwise—if you really think your friend won’t do anything, or say anything—then you should do what you would have done if he hadn’t shown up.’
‘I was planning,’ Fred said quietly, ‘on killing you.’
As he said it, the light in the room seemed to dim slightly, and he became aware of the silence of the apartment, and the snow-muffled sounds of the outside world. The apartment had never, somehow, seemed more secret.
Smith obviously felt it too, because he became tense suddenly, and seemed, once again, as he had that morning, to be enjoying himself; to be, in his puny, wretched way, willing Fred to do something dreadful.
‘How?’ he whispered eagerly.
Fred told him.
When he had finished Smith said, ‘You’d have to make sure no one saw us walking up to the Natural History Museum together.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘And you’d have to make sure I didn’t run away.’
‘Would you?’ Fred said softly, feeling slightly shocked.
‘Sure. I might. I mean there’d be no fun if I just trotted up town after you, would there? I mean—that’d be no game at all.’
Fred closed his eyes. The boy was right. It was a game. A mad, sick game. But it was a game on which his life depended. He said—he was almost whispering now, and the apartment was getting quieter and quieter, more and more secret, ‘I could keep a gun in your back. Then if you tried to get away I’d shoot you, and say that I had arrested you on suspicion, and—’
‘If you arrested me, why’d you be walking me uptown in a snow storm? W
hy wouldn’t you be calling in for help, for a car to come and pick me up? And anyway. I might not run. I might just call for help. Say you were a nut. Say—something to someone.’
‘Apart from the fact that I’d gag you, and put a scarf over your mouth, even if you did manage to say something no one would take any notice of you. They’d think you were crazy. They’d run away from you. And anyway, if I did shoot you, I probably wouldn’t stop to explain. I’d run away as fast as hell. No one would follow me. Not if I was armed. And then—we could leave here by taking the service elevator down, and going out through the service door in the basement. I can open that. That way the doorman wouldn’t see us leave. And I could come back in the same way. No one would have seen me leave or come back.’
Fred felt himself trembling, as he imagined taking the service elevator down into the grey, silent basement, taking care in case there was someone around—someone checking on the furnaces, or doing something in the supervisor’s office—and then opening the door, and slipping out with Smith into the dark, white, freezing night….
‘Someone might recognize you on the street,’ Smith whispered, ‘even if they didn’t try to stop you.’
‘I’d wear your cap,’ Fred whispered back. ‘And your dark glasses maybe. No one would recognize me.’
Smith, too, was trembling; Fred could see him. Then the boy stood up and went over to the door and turned out the lights in the room, so he was only a pale, ghostly figure, just visible in the slight glow that the street lights, way below, reflected into the room through the falling snow.
‘Shall we try it?’ he breathed. ‘I can’t promise you I won’t do anything unexpected. I mean—you can’t have it all your own way. But—well, we’ve both got a chance. And—’
Fred closed his eyes. It was a game. An evil, insane game. And yet—
‘No,’ he said, ‘I can’t trust Bob. I can’t risk it. Even if everything went all right, when you were found dead—’
‘He can’t do anything. He’s involved.’
‘He might do something anyway. I can’t risk it.’
‘He won’t. Not when it comes to it. If you present him with the fact. After all—why should he? At that point he’s only got everything to lose by saying something, and nothing to gain.’
The Order of Death Page 8
