The Will to Kill

by Robert Bloch

  They were all good two-dollar words, but I hadn’t yet heard one I could buy.

  “I asked you what you thought,” I said.

  “Please, Mr. Kendall. Katherine warned me that I might find you a trifle overwrought—”

  “Katherine?”

  “Miss Munson.”

  Funny, I never called her Katherine or Miss Munson. And he’d almost been engaged to her, once. I wondered about that. But right now, it could wait.

  “Well, I’m not overwrought,” I told him. “I’m just overtired. It’s only that I hoped you might have a few ideas.”

  “I do, my dear boy. Indeed I do. But before I say anything, I was wondering if you had any theory?”

  I paced the floor for a moment, if you can call four steps forward and back a pacing job. “Of course I have a theory. It was Calgary all right. Who else? So he didn’t use the same knife. He used the poniard.”

  “Your poniard?”

  “The one from my store, yes. Look, I told you about how frightened Trixie was. She knew Calgary, that’s why. Oh, I gave her a snow job that Calgary wasn’t dangerous, but I only did it to cheer her up, get her mind off it. I didn’t believe my own line about him not being the Ripper type—”

  “Jack the Ripper?” A new emotion came into those baby-blue eyes. “What do you know about him?”

  “Not too much. I’ve got some books down at the store.”

  “I should very much like to see them some time in the future. I happen—but no matter. Go on with your theory. You say you felt this man Calgary might be dangerous?”

  “Felt?” I snorted. “He came at me with a knife, didn’t he? And he wasn’t faking. He hated my guts. Trixie was his girl, and I went home with her. So the way I figure it is this. He hung around some tavern down the street, maybe took on a load, waiting for us to come out. Then he followed, just to make sure where we were going. After that he went around to my store—he knew where it was, been there in the afternoon and probably noticed the knives on the wall. He broke in, got the poniard, listened outside the window of Trixie’s place until he knew it was safe, and then—” I gestured and let my hands fall.

  “Very good as far as it goes,” Mingo commented. “But it doesn’t go quite far enough. For example, why didn’t he kill you at the same time? And if not, if he wanted to be certain of establishing your guilt, why didn’t he leave the poniard in the body?”

  “Ask Calgary,” I said. “That’s your job. Find the man and ask him.”

  “That’s a job for the police, and as I understand it they are looking for Mr. Calgary at the moment.”

  Anthony Mingo leaned forward. “Rest assured that I shall investigate fully,” he said. “There may be half a dozen other suspects, once the details of Trixie Fisher’s circumstances are established. Women of her class have a propensity for acquiring numerous jealous friends. In a crime of this nature, a crime of passion, the old adage must properly be reversed. Cherchez le homme, my boy. Cherchez le homme.”

  We were getting bilingual already, and there still wasn’t a word I could hang onto for comfort.

  “Tomorrow should bring us some of those answers,” Mingo continued. “I’ll do all I can to find out about your Mr. Calgary and any other acquaintances of the deceased. But there’s one other aspect of this case which frankly worries me.”

  “And that is?”

  “Your past record. That and the blackouts. You told me a good deal, I know, and Katherine volunteered some information this afternoon. But in this particular circumstance I’d feel better if we had some expert psychiatric opinion to go by.”

  “In other words you think I might be crazy.”

  “Far from it, my dear boy. You impress me as being remarkably sane, quite well-balanced considering the situation as it stands. But there’s always the element of doubt, and the way the press has chosen to exploit this case—the Ripper angle—may cause us a bit of difficulty.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Wait a minute. Why didn’t I think of it before? Give me a sheet of that paper and your pen.”

  I scribbled out a name and address and handed it to him.

  “Doc Greene,” I said. “There’s your man. Nathaniel Greene. I told you about him. He’s the guy who had my case in the service and at the hospital after Marie died. He helped then and he can help now. He’s out on the Coast. Call him up—long-distance—tonight, now. It’s still early enough out there.”

  Anthony Mingo tapped his chin with the slip of paper. “Excellent, my boy!” he declared. “Excellent! I’ll do that. And you’ll have my report in the morning.”

  Then he went away and I went back to my cot, feeling neither better nor worse, except that I wanted some sleep.

  But I didn’t get any sleep. Not yet. Because they came for me again. This time it was Lieutenant Cohen and the D.A., and neither of them said a word as they marched me along the corridor.

  We went into a room I guessed must be the line-up room, because there were big charts on the wall and many lights.

  “Stand up there on the platform, please,” Cohen said. So I stood up there on the platform.

  I stood waiting for the bright lights to hit me, stood there sweating and ready to squint. But there were no bright lights, only the single overhead bulb. And in a moment, a patrolman walked over to the wall and snapped off the switch. I was standing in the dark. I couldn’t see anything, but I could hear.

  I could hear the D.A. bring this man in, and I could hear a sort of tapping or clicking sound for a moment. Then only voices.

  “You say you knew her?” The District Attorney’s whisper.

  “Sure. I could recognize her anyplace. Went by once or twice every night with some guy or other. Always picking them up. But what could you expect from such a floozie?”

  “And it was about eleven, you say, that she passed?”

  “More or less. Clocks don’t mean much to me.”

  “She was alone?”

  “I think so.”

  “Think?”

  “Well, it was her heels I heard. I’d swear to that. Way she clattered along, it would take an army to march with her before I’d notice.”

  The voice was familiar, and when it came to that part about hearing the heels, I remembered. Blind Bill was out there. They’d picked up Blind Bill!

  “And then you went into the park, you say?”

  “Sure. Around midnight they start going home from the bars. I get lots of handouts that time, so I stay up late. Doesn’t matter to me what time of day I sleep, you know.”

  “I know. And you came out of the park near her apartment?”

  “Must have, about one, I’d say. That’s when I heard him come along.”

  “And you’d recognize the sound again?”

  “Pretty certain to. He walked right by me, and then he stopped. Stopped and waited for me to pass. I went around the corner, but I couldn’t hear anything so I got kind of nosey and sort of cocked an ear. Sure enough, about a minute later, he started walking—only back along the way he’d come. I guess he stopped right in front of her front window, then. I heard it ease up, a little, and figured he was climbing in. Well, it wasn’t any of my business, you might say, so I just kept on going.”

  I wanted to call out, then. I wanted to call out to Bill and tell him he was mistaken, there had been two sets of footsteps when Trixie and I passed him at eleven.

  But Lieutenant Cohen was suddenly beside me in the dark, and he nudged me in the ribs and he said, “Get ready, now.”

  And down below, the D.A. said, “You really think you can identify him, eh?” And Bill said, “I’ll try,” and then the D.A. called “Ready up there?” and Lieutenant Cohen nudged me again and whispered, “Walk across the platform.”

  I walked across the platform in the dark.

  The room was silent, and the cleats on my heels sounded like nails being driven into a coffin—my coffin.

  “That’s it!” Blind Bill yelled. “That’s the man! I’d recognize that sou
nd anywhere. Same rhythm. You got your killer now—I’d swear to it!”

  They nailed the lid down on my coffin and took me away.

  SEVEN

  They wouldn’t give me pills, or drugs, or drinks, or anything that might have helped me to sleep. They just left me to sit there in the dark, sit there and listen to the noises outside my cell and inside my head.

  Perhaps I could have slept if it weren’t for those noises. I heard somebody laughing down the hall. I heard myself asking why Blind Bill had lied. I heard somebody cough in the corridor. I heard Blind Bill say the cleats had come by all alone, late at night. I heard the jangle of a guard’s keys. I heard Blind Bill identify me.

  Why did he say that? What possible reason could he have for lying?

  The voices asked the questions inside my head, and there were noises, noises everywhere and not a spot of silence. Except for the red spot. The spot of blood on the knife. Because a knife is silent . . .

  After a long while the noises and the questions went away, and I just thought about the knife, dreamt about the knife.

  Then in the morning the noises came back again, as the dawn came up like thunder. The noises clattered down the hall with my breakfast.

  There was a mirror in my cell, but they wouldn’t give me a razor to shave myself with. I didn’t even ask why, because I knew. A knife is silent.

  I sat there after breakfast, waiting. Who would it be this time? The D.A., Cohen, Mingo, Kit? Nobody came.

  Finally I made some noise myself, rattled the bars until the guard came along. I gave him a quarter and asked for the morning paper.

  When he brought it I didn’t want it. Not after I read the story, read the headlines and the second-page “features.” They had me strapped into the chair already. Tom Kendall, the Sex Slayer.

  I couldn’t finish reading. Actually, I didn’t have to. Because a little before noon, somebody arrived.

  It was Anthony Mingo. The guard let him in and he nodded at me. “My dear boy, you look tired! Sleep poorly?”

  “Insomnia,” I said. “Or something I ate.”

  “Don’t be bitter. Did anything—happen—last night after I left?”

  “Sit down and I’ll tell you about it,” I said. He did, and I did.

  Mr. Mingo pursed his lips ever so delicately. “That doesn’t sound too good,” he observed. “But it explains a number of things. I saw this blind man down in Howard’s office as I came in. And the bartenders from this place you mention, Swanee’s. Bronson tells me that they’re going to bring in the deceased’s former roommate, a Miss Joan Schuyler. Would you know her, by any chance?”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “Oh, they’re thorough, and no mistake. Which is all to the good, from our standpoint. Who knows what they may find out or turn up? Often a very slim lead may be the determining—”

  I didn’t want a lecture on criminology. “Skip it,” I said. “What about Doc Greene? Did you get hold of him? What’d he say?”

  The lips unpursed, parted. “I meant to tell you. I tried to reach Doctor Greene at the hospital last night. They told me there that he’d been transferred to active duty once again. He’s in Korea.”

  And I was back in my coffin. The nails were in tight, the cleats were in tight—

  “Wait a minute!” I stood up. “The cleats! I had them put on yesterday, after Joe Calgary left my store. Because he was wearing them, too!”

  “So?”

  “Don’t you understand? I couldn’t figure out why Blind Bill was lying last night. Only this means he wasn’t lying. He did hear somebody walking with cleats in front of Trixie’s apartment. It was Calgary coming in.” I was shaking. “Get hold of Blind Bill and tell him, will you? Or tell the D.A., tell Cohen. They’ve got to find Calgary now, unless they’re already brought him in—”

  Mr. Mingo smiled. “He’s not booked. I checked. And today I shall proceed upon a little private investigation of my own. I’ll report back tomorrow morning, when you’re formally charged.”

  “Formally charged?”

  “Er—you must realize, under the circumstances, that unless something unexpected turns up within the next twenty-four hours, you’ll have to stand trial.”

  “But the cleats, and Calgary—”

  “Mr. Calgary is a suspect, yes. But you are the man they’re holding. Now, Mr. Kendall, if you’ll excuse me, our time is limited and every moment counts.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Every moment counts.”

  He went out then, and I started counting moments. The moments until lunch came. And after lunch, the moments until Cohen came.

  “Just stopped by to bring you a message,” he said.

  “Singing telegram?”

  “No. Just good luck. From a pal of yours. Art Hughes.”

  “Art Hughes—what’s he got to do with this?”

  “Just checking. He was with you in Swanee’s, remember? Said he saw you the night before, too—when you blacked out. Guess you talked pretty wild and he told you to see a doctor. That right?”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Anyway, he wanted to see you, of course. But that’s out. So he said to give you his regards and to wish you all the luck in the world.”

  Which I needed, and which wasn’t enough. They had Art Hughes now, and he could tell them all about me and Marie and my threats against Kit. Good Lord, I’d forgotten that part! And if Kit heard, why then—

  “What’s the matter, Kendall? You look a bit pale.”

  “I need fresh air,” I said. “Either let me out or go away.”

  He went away.

  The afternoon was long, long enough for me to wonder whether or not they’d found Joe Calgary, or the poniard. I sat and wondered about all sorts of people and things.

  I wondered what Mr. Mingo was doing, and where he expected to collect his fee. I wondered about Kit, and the store. Did she notice the lock had been forced on the door, and on the knife cabinet too? Yes, and I wondered about Doc Greene, over there in Korea.

  It got dark, and I had supper. Still nobody came, and I wondered some more. Where was Lieutenant Cohen? Had they found any more friends of Trixie’s, like this Joan Schuyler they were going to bring in for questioning? Was Art Hughes over at Swanee’s talking about my sad case with the oldest bartender? What were the hot-shot reporters dreaming up to write about me tonight? And where was District Attorney Howard, the man who didn’t have to fight for re-election?

  I got one answer, anyway. The guard came along, unlocked my door, and let Howard in.

  “Good evening,” he said.

  “Matter of opinion.”

  “Sorry to have neglected you. We’ve been quite busy.”

  “I can well imagine.”

  “I doubt if you can, actually.” He glanced at his watch. “Getting late, I see. Has Lieutenant Cohen been here?”

  “Not recently. You expect him tonight or something?”

  “Hardly. He’s out on a case.”

  “Another? I thought your boys only handle one assignment at a time.”

  “Usually. This is a bit—irregular.”

  “Look,” I said. “Just because we’re on opposite sides of the fence, that doesn’t mean I don’t want to help. I came across something today that might interest you. It’s about Blind Bill identifying me last night. I wish you’d listen because I think it’s important.”

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  I went ahead. When I finished, I watched his face. He smiled and I got a glimpse of how his bridgework looked under artificial light. “That sounds reasonable. And we’ll check into that, you may be sure, when we get a chance to talk to Calgary.”

  “Still haven’t found him? You’ve had them out looking—”

  “All day. And tonight there’s a general alarm out. We want him worse than you do, now.”

  “Now?” I was beginning to hope, a little, as a thought occurred to me. “This girl friend of Trixie’s, the one who used to room with her. You were going to questi
on her. Did she say anything that might help to pin the murder on Joe Calgary?”

  “Not a word. We didn’t even talk to her, but she gave us a pretty good lead.”

  “How come?”

  “You can hear all about it downstairs, Mr. Kendall,” said the District Attorney. “After you’re released.”

  “Released? You mean, you’re letting me go?”

  “Well, we could hold you as a material witness. And of course, we’ll want you for one when the case comes up. But I don’t think you’ll run.”

  “I won’t,” I assured him. “You’ll probably have a tail on me anyway.”

  That made him smile, and we were both smiling as we walked down the corridor.

  “Please,” I said. “I can’t wait. What’s all this about? What kind of a lead did Joan Schuyler furnish if you didn’t even talk to her? Didn’t you try?”

  “We tried,” said Howard, and he wasn’t smiling now. “We tried, but we were too late. When we finally located her around eight tonight, she couldn’t talk. She was dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “Murdered. The same way Trixie was murdered. And apparently by the same weapon. Maybe it was your poniard, maybe not. But you didn’t do it, and we did find that stamp album Calgary carried. It was on the floor in her room. That’s enough for us.”

  “So you’re letting me go,” I murmured. “Even though I couldn’t possibly be mixed up in this second killing, aren’t you taking a pretty big chance?”

  “Perhaps. But I’m inclined to trust you, Mr. Kendall. Besides, you’re taking a bigger chance than we are. There’s a Ripper loose in the city, somewhere—and who knows? Next time he might come looking for you.”

  EIGHT

  Kit was waiting for me in the office, and so was Anthony Mingo. “Tom, I’m so glad,” she said, and kissed me.

  Mingo didn’t kiss me, but he said, “Wonderful news, my dear boy.”

  Then they gave me back my wallet and identification; I signed a receipt, and shook hands with Howard.

  “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to the reporters,” he suggested. “They’ll probably be around tomorrow. Under the circumstances, the less anyone says the better.”