by Robert Bloch
“Hell, if I had a nickel for every bum who crawls up and down them stairs in a night,” he phrased it.
Nor could he help to identify any suspicious-looking characters from amongst his clientele.
“They’re all a bunch of crooks,” he reported. “Ain’t a one of ’em wouldn’t slip a shiv to his own mother for a fast fifty. Or less.”
The time was nine o’clock, give or take a few minutes. And the bar was crowded, and the juke box blared, and upstairs Helen Calgary sprawled across her unmade bed, reading a comic book. She was smoking a cigarette, and there was nothing to disturb her. Apparently she was used to sounds on the stairway, too. Sometimes those sounds meant profit, and she never locked her door. You meet all kinds that way: Mexicans, and Puerto Ricans, and Greeks bearing gifts.
But it wasn’t a Greek bearing a gift this time. Someone came in very softly and very slowly. Something came up very softly and swiftly. And then something came down.
Again the wounds were narrow and quite deep, and again there were many of them. This time the Ripper took his time, working in the dark, perhaps, after turning off the switch. And then he went away again. Possibly there might be prints on the doorknob or door frame; possibly not. There weren’t in Joan Schuyler’s room; and in Trixie’s apartment the only prints found were hers and mine. The Ripper went away as quietly as he had come, and by the same route.
He missed meeting Henley and the squad car by just seven minutes.
“That’s it,” Henley told us.
That’s it, and all of a sudden it was too much for me.
Howard noticed my face. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Look, would you excuse me,” I said. “I don’t feel so good. I want to go home.”
He nodded. “Henley, tell one of the boys to take Mr. Kendall home in a car, will you please?” He glanced down the corridor. “All clear. No reporters—they probably won’t bother you now, until morning. You’ll check with us then?”
“Sure,” I said. “Thanks.”
We went downstairs and out a side door and one of the squad cars drove me home. I didn’t talk. I didn’t feel like talking any more. We passed the park, and I wondered if Blind Bill was peddling his pencils. We passed Swanee’s and I wondered if Art Hughes was trying to locate a Gershwin selection on the juke box. We swung around and—just to complete it—drove by Kit’s place. I wondered if—but no, I’d had it. I was through.
Then I was home, and I said goodnight, and the shape rose up out of the shadows.
“Come on up,” I said. “Talk all you like. But don’t expect any answers.”
She helped me up the stairs. She opened the door for me. She took off my coat and my shoes. She even brought me the Overholt.
“Maybe this marriage business won’t be so bad after all,” I said. The drink was beginning to help a little.
Kit draped herself over the arm of my chair and investigated the rim of her glass with her tongue.
“You didn’t see a doctor after all,” she said. “Where were you?”
I closed my eyes. “Not now,” I said. “Tomorrow.”
“But it’s important. I have to know.”
I stood up. “Give me fifteen minutes first,” I said. “Here, mix yourself another drink.”
She did. I went into the bathroom and took three showers. A cold one, then a hot one, then a cold one again. I slapped myself with the towel. I swallowed two aspirins. Then I put on my robe and came out and had a drink.
And I told Kit about Anthony Mingo and Helen Calgary.
No need to go into her reactions. They were vivid and appropriate. I ended up by kissing her and stroking her hair. But I didn’t think of it as an ending—right now it was more of a prelude. I let my hands slip.
She pulled away.
“What’s the matter? Still afraid of me?”
“No. No, Tom, it isn’t that.” She frowned. “I just can’t make up my mind. You’ve gone through so much today, maybe I’d better not tell you. It can wait until morning. Yes. It can wait.”
She reached out and put my hands back where they’d been resting, although not exactly resting.
They rested now.
“What did you have to tell me, Kit?”
“Never mind, darling. It doesn’t matter. Not now, it doesn’t. Just relax.”
This time I pulled away. “All right, Kit,” I said.
She looked at me without any expression at all, and she said, “I saw your friend Art Hughes again tonight. He came around to my place right after supper.”
“Did he tell you to go away again?”
“No.” The voice was expressionless, too. “He told me he had killed Marie.”
I managed to stand up. “Kit, you’re sure of this?”
“He didn’t say he murdered her with the scissors, no. But he said he’d lied about you, lied to you. That he was responsible for her death. And that he was going to kill himself.”
“Kit—you listened to him, and you let him get away?”
“I was afraid. Because he acted so—crazy. And all the while he was talking, I had the funniest hunch.”
“What was that?”
“Did you ever stop to think that maybe he was the Ripper?”
I was already halfway across the room.
“Where are your going?”
“To put my clothes on. How long ago did he leave your place?”
“Eight o’clock, a little after.”
I glanced at my watch. It was about ten-thirty. So much had happened, in so little time. So much could happen—
I dressed quickly. Kit picked up her purse.
“Are you sure you feel all right, darling?”
I nodded. But I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure of anything, and I had to find out.
We went downstairs. It was a fine summer night with lots of stars and a generous helping of moon. A fine night for a stroll in the park. But we didn’t stroll—we almost ran.
Blind Bill wasn’t working the park tonight, and neither was anyone else. Despite the moon and the stars and the breeze and the inviting shadows over benches and under trees, the young people weren’t around. No one was around. Everybody kept away from parks these nights—parks, and alleys and back streets—because of what might be lurking there.
Right now, something was lurking in the back of my mind. Call it the subconscious, the preconscious, and subliminal; the terms didn’t matter. What mattered was the realization that I’d almost figured things out. Almost, until Kit had told me about Art Hughes.
“Do you know where you’re going, Tom?”
I halted on the corner. Of course not. I didn’t know where he lived. He’d told me he had a room around the corner from Swanee’s.
“Over here,” I said. And I guided her down the street, over, and into the juke-box jangle.
It was hard to walk in. It was hard to face the slow ripple of recognition running along the bar, accompanied by whispers and sidelong stares. The music was as loud as ever, and nobody really stopped talking when we entered. But I could sense the suppressed excitement.
I leaned over the bar and the oldest bartender came right over.
“Mr. Kendall,” he said. “I’m glad to see you back! I read about it in the papers and all, but I never believed it, not even at first. Like I was telling Bernie here, you could never do a thing like that. Wasn’t it awful, Mr. Kendall? I mean, the way that—”
“Let’s talk about it some other time,” I suggested. “Right now I’m in a hurry. Do you know where Art Hughes lives? The tall, skinny guy who was in here with me the other night?”
“Hughes?” He squinted. “Oh, sure I do. You go down to the corner, to Prentiss, and turn. It’s either the second or the third house, Mrs. Arzberger’s place. Reason I know, he was telling me about how she made him turn down his phonograph—”
“Thanks.”
I turned and walked out with Kit, and the eyes all followed us—the eyes of those who huddled here in the safety of nois
e and light, huddled with one another for protection because they didn’t want to be out on the streets tonight.
“Tom, do you think he’s done something? Do you think we ought to call the police first?”
I shook my head. “We’ll see. I’ve had enough of the police for one day.”
“But if anything’s really wrong—”
“Then we’ll get them fast. Don’t worry.”
We rounded the corner, and I wished I could take the advice I’d handed out. I was worrying, wondering, wavering.
Then we came to Mrs. Arzberger’s place, and I knew Art Hughes was home. It wasn’t the light behind the drawn blinds of the second-story window. It was the sound I recognized: the long, melancholy wail from the second movement of the Concerto in F.
“The saddest music in the world,” Art had told me, once. “It reminds me of funerals.”
Going up the stairs, running up the stairs, I remembered that. Would he have chosen that music purposely? Would he have put it on the phonograph just before he—
Kit knocked.
The music went on and on. Then the trickly, tricky piano part came in, and Art Hughes opened the door. His eyes were red marbles in a death mask.
He didn’t say anything. Not “You!” or “Hello!” or “Come in!” His mouth moved slowly, but no words came.
I brushed past him and went into the room. It was small, and the phonograph stood right next to the couch. And next to the phonograph was a table. And on the table was a fifth of gin, half empty. And next to the fifth of gin was this little bottle with the bright capsules. I recognized them from the hospital. Nembutal.
He’d taken the cap off, but the pills were undisturbed as yet.
I disturbed them. I walked over, scooped up the bottle, dumped it into my pocket. The pills tumbled out but I didn’t care.
Art Hughes just watched me. Then he closed the door, stumbled over to the couch, and sank down.
“She told you,” he murmured.
The last portion of the second movement came on, the part I’ve always thought would make a terrific popular song if Ira would write the words.
“You wanted her to tell me,” I said. “And you wanted me to come over, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “I guess so.”
I sat down next to him. “You’ve been wanting to tell me something for a long time, haven’t you, Art? You almost told me the other night in the tavern, but you were afraid. Why?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“Then you came around again, asking me to see a doctor, to go away. Because if I went away, you’d never have to tell me. You can’t make up your mind, can you? One minute you want to talk, the next minute you don’t. So you even thought of going away yourself—forever.”
“I wasn’t really going to take those pills, Tom. Not really.”
“I know. Because you haven’t got the guts to do even that. What kind of a man are you, anyway, Art?”
He didn’t answer. As the music reached crescendo, he stared first at Kit, then at me. But he didn’t answer until the slow wail started again. “I’m a murderer.”
Kit gripped my arm. “Shall we call now?” she whispered. I shook my head.
“Listen to me, Art. The other day you came in and hinted that I was responsible for Marie’s death. That wasn’t true, and you know it. You knew it then. Of course she was upset about me, about my blackouts. But she loved me, she’d stick by me, she wouldn’t kill herself because of that.”
“I was lying,” Art said. “I just wanted you to go away, so I wouldn’t have to see you, wouldn’t have to think any more—”
The finale came in, fast. Gershwin’s fierce, frenetic orchestration.
“Then you came to Kit and told her you’d killed Marie. And that’s a lie, too, isn’t it?”
Horns sounded, drums pounded.
“No, it’s true.” He looked at me now as if he really saw me for the first time tonight. “Everything I said about Marie, her brooding about you until she couldn’t stand it and killed herself, is true. Only it wasn’t you she was brooding about, it was me. Because of what I did while you were away, wandering around. She knew she was going to have a baby and—”
“You were the father.”
He couldn’t say it, I couldn’t say it. Kit said it. She said it quietly, over the music.
Art Hughes tried to stand up and fell back. I clenched my fists.
And then he was sobbing, sobbing and staring up at me and shuddering out, “Go ahead, Tom! Go ahead and kill me. I deserve it, I killed her and I drove you crazy, so go ahead. Take your knife out and rip me like you ripped the others, rip me, rip me—”
I bent over him. The lull in the music came, the final lull before the climactic storm of sound.
Speaking softly, trying to reach him inside the private hell of his, I said, “I’m not a ripper, Art. I’ve never killed anyone and I don’t want to. I’m not crazy, either, haven’t had a blackout since this thing began. So you needn’t be afraid any more.”
He wouldn’t, couldn’t look at me.
“About Marie,” I said. “I think I can understand. And when you understand, you don’t blame. I don’t blame you, or her, or myself, although all three of us were a part of it.”
Kit was crying now, and there was no anger mingled in her tears.
“I don’t blame you, Art, and you’ve got to stop blaming yourself. Maybe you should take the advice you handed out to me. Go and see a doctor, Art.”
The Concerto ended, and Kit and I went away. We walked down the hall, out of the place, and silence followed us. There was silence all down the block until we reached the corner.
Then we heard the music. He’d gotten up and picked out a record at random, of course. More Gershwin. But why did it have to be a number called Soon?
SIXTEEN
Kit didn’t say anything until we were a block away, almost abreast of Swanee’s again. Then, “You don’t think he’s the Ripper?”
“Sure of it. He’s just a poor, mixed-up guy like all the rest of us.” I thought of Mingo and his fantasies of punishment and pain, of the sailor whose name was Sweeney and who had to get drunk and start a fight because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re Irish. “People always have their reasons for what they do, Kit. When the reasons are wrong, the actions are wrong. But you can find the reasons and even if they don’t seem important or make sense to you, they do to the other fellow. Art had his reasons. Even the Ripper has reasons.”
Even the Ripper.
And here we were again, right back at the beginning. They hadn’t found the Ripper yet, and there were still three hundred thousand people to choose from.
“Don’t talk about it any more.” Kit gripped my arm very tightly. “Let’s just go back to your place, shall we?”
It was beginning to seem like an excellent idea.
“I’ve got to tell you something,” Kit said. “Remember the other night in the car? When I pulled away? Mingo had warned me then, and so had Art Hughes. And I almost believed, then, that it could be possible. Even tonight, I still had that little bit of feeling left, that doubt. But when Art told you about—about Marie—and you talked to him, then I knew. I knew I’d never be afraid of you any more.” She pulled my head down. “Let’s go to your place, Tom. Now.”
Why not? I asked myself. It was still a beautiful night, she was still a beautiful girl.
And there were still three hundred thousand people to choose from.
All right, so what? Let the police find the Ripper. That’s what they get paid for. Lieutenant Cohen and Henley and Flint. Let them go into the alleys and the flophouses and the bars—
We passed Dick’s place.
“Let’s stop in for a drink, first,” I said.
“But you’ve got a bottle at home.”
“Just a fast one. I’ve never been in here.”
It was true. I’d never been in Dick’s. But Dick’s was the place where Joe Calgary finished hang
ing one on the night Trixie died. Dick’s was the place where he’d sold his knife, and perhaps he sold Mingo’s stamp album here, too.
We went into Dick’s.
I’d been in several taverns during the last three days, and never for pleasure. One look around and I knew I wouldn’t find pleasure in Dick’s, either.
The juke box was just as loud, the customers were just as noisy, the air just as thick and stale. I sometimes wonder what the vintners buy that’s half as disappointing as what they sell. You go into a tavern for pleasure and you get pandemonium.
We found places at the bar and I ordered two Overholts. Then I did what I’d intended to do when I came in there.
The bartender who wore glasses didn’t know, but the other one—the young one—came right over.
“Sure, I remember,” he said. “Calgary sold the knife to Bruno. Bruno gave him three bucks for it.”
“Where’s Bruno?” I asked.
The young bartender looked around before he leaned forward and answered.
“The cops came in the next day and asked about Calgary,” he said. “Bruno still had the knife, and he got scared, I guess, because he admitted it and handed it over. They asked him a lot of questions: why he bought it, and all that. Bruno said it was because he was scared Calgary might start something. Bruno scared—that’s a laugh! Why he could have taken Calgary with one hand tied behind his back. You’ve never seen Bruno, have you? He’s built like a brick—”
I interrupted hastily. “I’ve never seen Bruno, no. But I’d like to. Where is he?”
The young bartender raised his eyebrows and lowered his voice. “That’s what we’d all like to know,” he murmured. “After the cops were here, Bruno got off duty and went out. And he never came back.”
