By Reason of Insanity (78 page)

Another ten minutes of admiring himself brought no further improvement and he turned to his final packing. Into the shoulder bag went his portable radio and extra batteries, the hair brush and second scarf, the telegram forms and pads and pencils, and all the makeup and shaving stuff. Finally his post-mortem knife. There was no more room and nothing else to take. All his own clothes would be left behind except for the hunter’s cap. He stuffed that in the bag too, just in case. That was it, all done. The new sunglasses and gloves would be worn.

He was ready for instant immortality.

A few minutes before noon Bishop left his squalid room without a goodbye glance. To him it was just another stopover in a lifetime of one-night stands. As always and forever, he would not be coming back.

In the murky hallway he passed another resident, who soon stared after the blonde with cunning eyes. Downstairs the wino behind the desk wondered where she had come from. She looked a helluva lot better then the usual run of hookers who paraded around the area. Either that or he was into the sauce a little heavy this morning.

Outside, Bishop quickly got a cab on Broadway, the driver braking smoothly for the trim blonde. She gave her destination in a timorous schoolgirlish voice and he turned left on 86th Street. As he gunned his cab through the park he stole smoldering glances at his passenger in the rearview mirror.

At a distance Bishop looked striking. Even from a few feet away the lithe figure appeared desirable. Average in height, the body was slim, the legs shapely. But the best part was the face; soft, feminine, even sexually alluring with its shadowed eyes, high cheekbones and pouting lips.

In truth Bishop found his latest disguise exciting. More than that, he found the thought delicious. He would vanquish his enemies by turning their own weapons against them. Like a fox in the guise of a hound, he would become one of them in order to gain access to their castle. Once inside he would reveal his true nature and wreak his vengeance on all within. He would lay waste to the castle and leave it in ruins.

His plan was to start at the top floor, room by room, woman by woman, working his way downward, floor by floor. He would announce himself at each door in his girlish voice, a member of the hotel staff with a telegram. Brought to their rooms through the courtesy of the management, a nice gesture. Unsuspecting, they would open their doors.

Working quietly, taking his time, he would go from one to another. Not all would be home, or answer his knock, or be alone—in which case he’d announce his mistake, the supposed telegram in his hand. It was really for someone else, the right room number but the floor below. Sorry for the inconvenience.

But many would answer and be alone, would open their doors and smile at him, reach out or even let him in. A great many of them. And why not? They were in a hotel for women. Safe, secure, protected. That was what they were paying for. Danger was elsewhere, some place else in another part of town.

But coming closer.

He got out of the cab at 62nd Street and Lexington Avenue, giving the driver a large tip and receiving a last lascivious look in return. He would walk the rest of the way, just around the next corner actually. Then no one would see him entering the hotel, or at least pay any attention to him.

Coming closer.

With his powdered face and blond wig, his slim figure and soft clothes, his stylish shoes and gloves, the travel case slung over his left shoulder, Bishop walked down Lexington Avenue to 6ist and made a right turn into the peaceful block.

Closer.

Past moneyed stores and expensive houses he walked, passing shoppers and chauffeurs, office workers on their lunch hour and women of independent means.

Close.

The red fabric canopy was just ahead of him. He steeled his eyes, fired up his warmest smile and added an exuberant bounce to his bearing. He was the picture of young womanhood, poised, assured, self-confident, The kind that was always noticed but never suspected.

Now with a final rhythmic clicking of heels against pavement, she entered through the glass doors and continued onward into the lobby of the internationally famous Ashley Hotel for women.

IT HAD been a bad night all around for Adam Kenton. He was sure he didn’t sleep more than two or three hours. Because of his drinking he had missed some of what Thomas Bishop had said to him, missed it or instantly forgot it. Not that Bishop had revealed anything specific about his plans; of that Kenton was positive. But still he wanted every word said, every pause and inflection. That was his livelihood and this was the biggest story of his life.

He had immediately called Dimitri but couldn’t get him. Even inspectors had to sleep sometime, to be with their families. The message would be given to him. When? When he was available.

Kenton woke up Fred Grimes to tell him of the call. Was it really Bishop? Yes, it was Bishop. No mistake about that. How did he know? He had never talked to the man, never heard his voice or even his breathing.

Didn’t matter. He knew who it was right away. Something about the timing of the call, how it was handled. He couldn’t explain it but he was certain he had talked to the madman himself.

Well, not really talked to him. More like listened.

What was said?

That something special would be happening very soon. Something so special that all the world would be talking about it for years to come. It would be a sign that Bishop had been sent on a divine mission, that he was truly Caryl Chessman’s son and doing the work of his father.

But what was he going to do?

Kenton didn’t know.

Afterward he thought of phoning George Homer or even John Perrone. But they could do nothing at midnight, nobody could. He sat up and smoked cigarettes and drank water, trying to clear his head. At 12:30 A.M. Dimitri called. He didn’t seem particularly disturbed over Kenton’s inability to recount Bishop’s exact words, asking only that Kenton try to keep him on the phone as long as possible if he called again.

For the rest of the night the hound slept fitfully, pacing and growling, angry at himself, his prey, everybody. In the morning he felt anything but rested. A shower and shave helped a bit and breakfast a bit more. By ten he was in his office. Or rather John Perrone’s office, telling of his midnight caller. His idea had worked; Homer’s idea actually. Their man had taken the bait and established contact.

But for what purpose? asked Perrone. And what would the sign be? And when? Those were important questions.

Kenton had no answers. Not at the moment. But if Bishop called once, it meant he would do it again.

Perrone was not so sure. He had awakened with the same dread feeling of imminent disaster that had filled his Sunday-night hours. Something was going wrong, horribly wrong. Chess Man was demented and homicidal. He was also vastly unpredictable.

By noon everyone at
Newstime
had heard of Chess Man’s cryptic call. Most saw it as another point gained for the magazine. Few worried about the menacing implications.

DURING THE morning hours Inspector Dimitri had listened again and again to Chess Man’s voice speaking the few words of warning. He was up to something all right, but there were no clues in what he had said to Kenton. Nothing definite. Just like he knew he was being overheard.

Dimitri had ordered Kenton’s phone at the St. Moritz tapped the minute he learned of the plan to make contact with Chess Man. Kenton’s hotel was named in the newspaper interview, an unusual occurrence, and that plainly told what the reporter was up to. The tap had been connected just hours before the call, but Chess Man didn’t speak long enough for a trace to be made.

Maybe the next time, said some of the task force members. If Kenton could keep him on long enough, they stood a good chance of getting him.

Dimitri wondered if they’d ever have him on long enough, or even if they’d have another chance. The voice sounded so—final.

Or was he just imagining things again?

BISHOP GOT off at the tenth floor, not wanting the operator to know of his actual destination. In the elevator he had stared at a magazine he carried in order not to be engaged in conversation. As the elevator doors closed behind him, the young woman with the shoulder bag walked along the carpeted hall to the exit door. A gloved hand checked the outside knob to make sure it wasn’t locked. The next moment she was racing up the fire stairs.

At the fourteenth floor Bishop slowly opened the door. There was no one in the hallway. He quietly walked to the end of the corridor and around the bend of the L-shaped floor design. He intended to work his way back to the other end of the hail room by room, then floor by floor, ripping downward until nothing remained of the ruined castle and death was its only lodger.

They would have their sign. And by it would he be known to all people and for all time.

He knocked on the door.

The woman was surprised to see her standing there. She could have sworn she knew all the female help in the hotel. And why the coat and bag just to bring a telegram upstairs? She frowned as she was given the pencil and pad to sign. Distracted, her eyes were not on the other as gloved hands came up swiftly to circle her throat …

A moment later Bishop closed the door and snapped the dead bolt in place. He put his bag on a chair and took out the portable radio and his knife. He removed his coat and gloves.

With the radio playing in the background and the dead woman’s television set turned to an early afternoon movie, Thomas Bishop Chess Man slowly undressed and went to work on the body.

Long afterward he stretched out naked on the bed to await the eve of destruction.

THROUGHOUT THE afternoon Adam Kenton stayed close to his office phone, hoping Bishop would call, knowing he wouldn’t but thinking he might anyway. Like John Perrone, Kenton felt something fearful was coming. It wasn’t only the fact of the call, itself no idle threat. But the very next day was the fifth anniversary of Bishop’s escape, measured in months instead of years. He knew of the date of course; five months was a lifetime in such circumstances. He would want to celebrate, and what better time to work his latest feat of magic than at such a celebration? It was too perfect a piece of timing to let slip by.

Beyond all of that was the possibility that Bishop might be running down, losing energy. He had returned to New York. In almost four thousand miles of travel he had never gone back to any place, as far as was known. Granted that New York was uniquely suited to his needs, it was still backward motion and seemed to indicate a lessening of drive, a weakening of spirit. Or was it merely the fox doubling back?

Even so, wasn’t that still the beginning of the end?

The hunter didn’t know. He wondered if the fox ever thought in such terms. He tried to put himself in the other’s position but he couldn’t become the fox anymore. He had identified too closely in the chase with the hound and had lost his metaphoric abilities. He no longer knew what Bishop would do, and that worried him more than anything else.

AT THE special task force headquarters on East 21st Street, new information was being fitted into the factual profile on Chess Man. Fingerprints found in the dead Miami woman’s apartment matched those known to belong to Thomas Bishop. He had been to Florida, which made it likely that he had been seen getting off the Miami bus. The description held: a man with dark hair and a goatee.

Also found was $21,000 belonging to Thomas Brewster. An assistant branch manager of a Jersey City bank had remembered the name, reading of Brewster over the weekend, and had checked the account that morning before calling local police, who had in turn notified New York.

The problem was determining how Bishop got that kind of money. None of his victims had been affluent. Most were bought women or lonely women of survival level to whom $21,000 would have seemed like a million. Even an aggregate figure probably would not reach that amount. And money was found afterward in many of the slain women’s homes, even on their bodies or in their bags.

Did such a vast sum of cash indicate yet another victim? A victim unknown to police, undiscovered, unreported? Or could the money have come from more than one such victim? How many?

How many more bodies were lying out there across the sweep of America?

It was a chilling question only Chess Man could answer. But no one on the task force expected him to live that long.

IN THE early evening Bishop watched a game show on television, fascinated by the antics of contestants.

Eventually he arranged his clothes carefully on the couch: the print dress with the floral design, a bit too large for him but not uncomfortably so, the gray wool sweater, the colorful scarves, the stockings and brown shoes. The green coat and black gloves were placed separately on a chair; he would not be needing them again until he had finished. His travel bag, now empty, was on another chair. On an end table next to the couch lay the blond wig and the telegram forms and pads and pencils.

All the makeup and the hair brush and earrings had already been put in the bathroom. When the time came he intended to give himself an even finer face in the larger mirror and better lighting of his newest temporary residence.

Satisfied with his final preparations, Bishop returned to watching TV from a restful position on the bed. He anticipated a busy day for himself, a day to remember—at least for others to remember—and he wanted to be at his best. A stock phrase came to mind, “bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.” Like a fox. He frowned, reminded of Adam Kenton, who no doubt saw him as the fox to be pursued. Except he was now once again the hunter; he had the power, and it was he who would be in pursuit.

For the fox there was nowhere new to run, and no place else to hide.

Thinking such thoughts, Bishop soon fell asleep in the middle of a war comedy about prison camps. He didn’t understand how anybody could laugh at being locked up. He had been locked up all his life. It wasn’t anything for laughter. No one laughed at being locked up. No one he ever knew laughed at it. No one he ever heard of either. Unless they were crazy.