At eight o’clock he went into the kitchen and opened some tins and ate a sort of dinner; he didn’t bother to throw away the tins afterwards, nor to wash his knife and fork and plate, nor to wipe up the oil that had spilled out of the tin of tuna fish when he had opened it. Not only was there no point in doing so, but also he decided that he preferred it if there was a mess when they came to find him. It would satisfy them more. Because that way they would never be able to imagine the order there had been….
At about ten o’clock he lay down on the floor and fell asleep.
At eleven he was woken by the doorbell.
So, he thought, as he got slowly to his feet, glanced at his watch, and straightened his tie, he hadn’t had to wait long. Not even a day. Well—he guessed he was glad….
He walked slowly, but without hesitating, down the corridor to the hallway. Then he straightened his tie once more, and opened the door.
He didn’t know who or what he had expected; he hadn’t let himself think. So when, in front of him, he didn’t see two or three uniformed men, but simply a pale, frightened-looking boy with a shaven head; a weak, wretched-looking boy whose name —it was as if he recognized him from some police dossier, or had seen his photograph in the paper, but had never had anything to do with him personally—was Leo Smith, he neither knew what to make of it, nor what to do.
He stood there, in his grey silk suit and his monogrammed shirt, a big red man with the manner of an old maid, and murmured, ‘Smith.’
The boy looked at him as if he, too, only recognized him from some third-hand source, and then whispered, ‘Can I come in?’
Fred stood back, let the boy in, and closed the door behind him. And only then did he manage to take in what had happened. It was Smith who stood there in his hallway! Pale, perverted Smith, who had been his prisoner! The trembling boy who had savagely cut Bob’s throat last night, and had run away from him. And now he had come back to him. Had come home, as it were.
Smith was staring at him, waiting. For what? To be hit? To be killed on the spot?
Fred walked away. He walked back down the corridor to the living room and sat down. What did it mean? He closed his eyes and tried to think of an explanation. But when he couldn’t, he opened them again, saw that he was alone, and called, softly, ‘Smith.’
The boy walked nervously into the living room. His teeth were chattering now. He seemed about to burst into tears. He said miserably, ‘No one saw me come here, I think. I slipped past the doorman again. Like I did when I first came here.’
Fred said nothing.
‘I’m sorry. But I didn’t know where else to go. I’ve been walking in the Park for hours. And riding the subway. I threw away my cap. I—I didn’t know what to do. So I thought I’d come back here. I couldn’t go on any longer. You don’t mind, do you? But if they’d caught me, I’d have had to tell them about you. About here. I—’ And then he did burst into tears.
Fred watched him; watched him as if he were watching a seal who was performing old tricks.
Smith didn’t attempt to wipe his eyes, or to sit down, or to move at all; he simply stood there, with his hands hanging by his side, and let the tears pour from his red pale eyes, down over his cheeks and on to his jacket and his sweater and on to the floor.
And Fred didn’t move, either. His first thought was that, if the boy hadn’t been seen coming here, then everything was as it had been before; exactly as it had been before. His hope, his future, his life, had risen like the proverbial phoenix from the ashes, and recreated themselves. His second thought was that nothing was as it had been before. On the surface—yes, maybe. But like a city that has suffered a great earthquake, been hidden for a while by a cloud of dust, and then discovered to be intact, nothing could be trusted any more. The buildings might still be standing. But what of their foundations? What of the sewers that ran beneath them? What of the gas pipes, and electricity lines, and water tubes that powered and made the buildings habitable? What of them? Were they safe still? Or were they all deeply, fatally fractured, so that the appearance of preservation was only an illusion; an ironical mirage?
As he sat there, watching the crying boy, the second thought gained ground over the first in Fred’s mind, and slowly replaced it altogether. No, he told himself, nothing was as before. And the appearance of safety couldn’t be, mustn’t be trusted. For one thing—after Smith had run away last night, and after he had given up hope of catching him, he had walked to the stolen car without trying to hide. Someone might—must?—have seen him then, even if they hadn’t seen him before. And when it was discovered that Bob had been killed before he had had his throat cut, and killed, what was more, not where he had had his throat cut, then surely someone would come forward and say they had seen a big man walking out of the park. A big man who had gotten into a blue Ford and driven away. Then probably the owner of the blue Ford, finding that someone had used his car—because he hadn’t really done much to hide the wires he had pulled out to start it—would come forward. And as it had been found right outside the service entrance to his block, no doubt the doormen would be asked questions. And they would say sure, there’s a big man who lives here. And a few weeks ago a youth wearing a black cap, whose name—they might even remember his name—was Leo Smith, came round asking for him. Leo Smith … and then, if they didn’t come right upstairs and find them both, they would go to Leo’s grandmother, and she would tell them about his visit. And she would give them a minute description of him. And then they would know….
All this was one reason why nothing was the same as it had been. But it was not the main reason. Because there were a great many ifs and buts in all this, and it was equally possible that no one had seen him, that the owner of the blue Ford would think only that some kids had vandalized his car, and that no questions would be asked about him or Smith. After all, the boy could hardly have been recognized last night; he had had his cap pulled down over his head, and his scarf pulled up around his mouth. And if none of the doormen whom Smith had asked to be let in by a few weeks ago had read about—or connected—the disappearance of Leo Archell Smith with the boy who had called for Mr. O’Connor, there was a good chance they wouldn’t, even if they were asked questions, think anything of it now. Because —again—there were a lot of people who wore woollen caps, a lot of people called Smith, and Fred had never had the boy sent up; so as far as anyone knew, there was no connection between them.
No—the main reason why the safety of the city could no longer be trusted was because, Fred felt, he himself had changed. Something had happened to him in the earthquake. Before, he had had his dream of a world as a formal dance, where every step and movement was preordained and planned, where good was the perfect execution of the dance, and where the only sin was to question the why’s and wherefore’s of the movements. But now, for some reason, he felt himself not merely questioning the why’s and wherefore’s, but also the reasons for the dance itself. It wasn’t exactly that he had lost his dream, but rather that, for the first time, he had become aware of its limits; the frontiers that stood between it, and—nothingness. Whereas before he had always thought of it and believed it to be infinite; a perfect, curved dream….
He watched the tears from Smith’s eyes falling on to the carpet, and then, only very slightly disapprovingly, cleared his throat.
‘You can stay if you want to,’ he said slowly. ‘But you don’t have to.’
Smith looked at him through his tear-filled eyes, apparently not understanding him.
‘You see,’ Fred went on, ‘Bob was already dead when you cut his throat.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
As soon as he had said it Fred realized that he shouldn’t have; he was depressed, shocked, disturbed, and one should never do anything unless one was absolutely calm. But he had said it, and the effect on Smith was immediate.
First the boy sat down on the floor, as heavily as if he had been pushed. Then, after he had gone on snivelling for a while, he wip
ed his nose with the back of his hand, and gave Fred a look that was both ashamed and accusative. And finally, after another two minutes, he gave one of his social smiles, and started to speak in his flattest, most casual voice.
‘Well that’s good,’ he said. ‘I guess I should have realized. I mean—perhaps I did. But I was too frightened to really know what I was doing.’ Then he positively beamed at Fred. ‘Not that it makes any difference of course. I mean technically, morally let’s say, I’m still guilty of murder. Because since I did think he was still alive, and I cut his throat—’ Smith shrugged. There was spittle at the corners of his mouth.
Fred stared at the boy; horrified, sickened. Just a few minutes ago he had been snivelling, crying, flinging himself on his mercy. But he had simply been crying with fear; with all the despair of a small boy who had been playing an evil game which had finished badly, and wants everyone to reassure him, and bundle him up, and tell him that of course he wasn’t doing anything wrong, and that it wasn’t his fault. And now—he couldn’t believe it. In spite of everything, in spite of all that had happened, this was still a game for the boy. And his smugness, his smooth revolting smugness in daring to talk about ‘moral responsibility’ —it was unbelievable! What was even more unbelievable, Fred also realized, was that strangely, suddenly, in spite of his strength, in spite of the fact that Smith was up here in his secret kingdom, in his prison, the power, the control of the situation had been taken from him, and had passed to this weak, wretched boy with his smooth voice and smug manner. Yes, Smith had come back up to his prison, but Smith was no longer the prisoner. He, Fred O’Connor was. And just because the boy had so oddly, inexplicably taken over, Fred felt he was bound to talk to him, and to pretend to take him seriously; pretend that he didn’t hear his smugness; pretend that he didn’t realize all this was a game.
He said, ‘You’re not technically or morally responsible for anything. I was pointing a gun at your head.’
‘I should have let you shoot,’ Smith purred. ‘Anyway, no one would ever believe the truth if I told it. I’d be arrested as your accomplice.’
‘Oh, they’d believe it all right. They’d come here and see all this, and your grandmother could probably get you acquitted of murdering the president, with all her money.’
This seemed to annoy Smith. ‘No she couldn’t,’ he said sulkily. ‘Anyway, even if they didn’t get me for killing your friend Bob, they’d probably get me for all the others.’
Fred sighed. ‘Don’t start that again. You know you’ve never killed anyone. You told me last night.’
‘I only said that because I didn’t want to kill your friend. I mean—that was real last night. All the others were fantasies. I don’t like to kill in reality.’
Fred felt himself flushing. He wanted to scream, or to get up and hit the boy. He couldn’t stand it. All this flippant playing around with words, all this repulsive play-acting.
‘What are you planning to do?’ he said.
‘Well, I guess I better stay here and hide out for a while. If that’s okay with you.’ He smiled at Fred again. ‘I guess you better, too. Just in case anyone saw you last night.’ He stood up, walked across the room, and sat down, sprawling, in the other armchair. ‘Christ I’m tired,’ he drawled. ‘I didn’t sleep at all last night.’
‘Aren’t you scared,’ Fred said, ‘that I’ll tie you up again? Or even kill you?’
‘No. Not really. I mean—there’s no point in tying me up, is there? After all, I’m not about to go out and risk getting arrested. And then you couldn’t kill me. Because you’d have to get rid of my body somewhere. And when it was found grandmother would remember your visit.’ He laughed, oh so casually. ‘You should have thought of that last night when you pulled that gun on me. They’d have got you.’
Fred flushed again. ‘Yes,’ he murmured. ‘I should have. I didn’t think.’
Once more Smith laughed. ‘To tell the truth, neither did I until a short time ago.’
Fred whispered, miserably, ‘They’ll find me—us—anyway, quite soon. I’ve been much too careless. They’re bound to find some clue. Footprints, your fingerprints on the knife. Then someone might easily have seen me getting Bob’s body out of the car.’
‘Yes, I guess,’ Smith said. He didn’t sound interested. ‘Did you work today?’
‘No. I called in sick. I said I had hepatitis. I said I’d be sick for a month.’
‘That was dumb. That’ll make them suspect you, if they don’t already.’
‘Why?’
‘Going sick the day your buddy gets killed.’
‘He wasn’t my buddy. I almost never spoke to him except when we were here.’ Then he lowered his voice, and muttered huskily, ‘Do you think they do suspect me?’
Smith looked concerned now; as if he were speaking to a child. ‘Sure they do. They must. They must suspect everybody. But you—’ he grinned, condescendingly.
‘For all the killings?’ Fred whispered.
‘Yes. Probably.’
‘No,’ Fred said, firmly now. ‘They couldn’t. They have no reason to.’
Smith raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, we’ll see, anyway.’ Then he frowned. ‘By the way—what about the doormen here?’
‘I don’t know,’ Fred shrugged. ‘But I hope they won’t remember you asking for me and giving your name, if anyone comes round asking questions.’
Smith opened his eyes wide now, in mock astonishment. ‘I wasn’t thinking about that. I meant—about your friend Bob. They’re bound to see his name in the paper, or on the television, and his photographs.’
Fred lay back in his chair, and closed his eyes. He wanted to sleep.
‘Don’t tell me you didn’t think about that?’
‘No,’ Fred whispered. ‘I didn’t.’
Smith laughed. ‘My God you’re efficient! I thought you must have—’ he stopped.
‘Maybe,’ Fred said, ‘the photographs in the papers, if they have one, will be an old one. Or a bad one. And if there’s only the name—maybe they won’t associate it with Bob. After all, they didn’t know he was a cop, and wouldn’t think he was, living here. And he didn’t come that often.’
‘He came last night.’
‘Maybe,’ Fred said desperately, ‘none of them read any newspapers.’ Then he asked slowly, ‘Why did you come back here, if you thought—I mean—’
Smith gazed at Fred, and then nodded. ‘You’ve changed. You know that. I do believe you feel guilty about having killed that guy.’ Then he shrugged. ‘I guess the only thing we can do is wait and hope that if the doormen do recognize the photograph, they won’t say anything to anyone. There’s no reason why they should, in fact. I mean, they might say they’re sorry to you, but —they aren’t to know that this apartment is a secret, are they? They probably think everyone knows about it. And if Bob only came here every now and then, they wouldn’t think he lived here, would they? I mean—he didn’t, anyway. They’d just think that he visited occasionally. Or that you let him have a key.’
What was the boy trying to do? Sow more doubts in his mind than there already were, or reassure him? Fred didn’t know. He repeated, ‘Why did you come here?’
‘Because I couldn’t think where else to go,’ Smith said, ‘and I was scared.’ His honesty, Fred guessed, was meant to be disarming. But somehow, while he believed him, he also believed that the boy had come back because he wanted to see, for better or worse, the end of the drama or game or whatever it was, and knew that that end wouldn’t be too long in coming.
But when, and how?
He fell asleep asking himself these questions, only hearing, from the far distance, Smith’s voice saying flatly, ‘The only thing we can do is wait, and hope.’
*
They waited for a week; and if total silence from the outside world was a good sign—which Fred guessed it was—their hope was justified.
They did nothing all day—there was nothing to do—except think. At least, Fred thought, an
d he guessed Smith did too. But he didn’t ask, and didn’t want to know. Their conversation was kept to a minimum, with only the occasional, ‘do you want to eat now?’, or ‘where do you keep the toilet tissue if there is any more?’ to break the quiet. The first day Smith had tried to talk to Fred—asking him about his family, about his religious beliefs, about his past—but since none of his questions had received a reply, he had given up, and simply sat in the kitchen listening to the radio—until Fred said that that irritated him, and smashed it. He didn’t want anything to disturb his thoughts.
For the first few days he simply thought about being found out, and arrested, and being sent to prison for life. And then, as it started to seem that maybe he wouldn’t be, he thought about his life as it had been up to now. Then he thought about what would happen if he were never found out, but simply had to remain Smith’s prisoner forever. Then he thought that he had been stupid not to have bought at least a couple of beds; he was stiff and sore from sleeping on the floor. And finally, and more and more—especially as he was falling asleep, and when he first woke up in the morning—he thought about Bob. Not so much about Bob as a person, as a serious minded young man who liked, or said he liked, reading poetry and listening to classical music, and was married to snappy little Lenore with her moustache and her damned awareness, but Bob as he had first seen him, and as he had always seen him thereafter; as a minister of pity. And the more he thought about him, and especially of their first meeting, the more he realized that he missed, now that he no longer had it, that pity. He wanted it. It was ironical, he guessed. When Bob had been alive he had despised him for it; now that he was dead he felt that he would have given anything, anything—even the apartment—just to be enfolded again in those invisible, compassionate arms that Bob was so eager to spread out around the sad and the miserable. It wasn’t exactly that he felt sad and miserable, but—he didn’t know how he felt, which was why he thought about Bob and his pity, and longed for it. Just as, he realized, he longed to know what he had always believed he had known, but now, if he had, couldn’t remember; which was why Bob had pitied him….
The Order of Death Page 14
