Gentle Murderer (25 page)

For an instant only could she concentrate on her work. She began to compute the amount she could hold out from her mother for the tax so that she would have something left. She was already sickened with the deception. Gradually she began to shape a desperate plan. There was enough money in the envelope to get them a few miles out of New York. They could sleep outdoors. Tim was used to it. He would love it, and with him near her, she would not mind. She could get a job as a waitress. They could manage. Tim would go without her if she waited. She was sure of that. He might not want to. But her mother would hound him, and he would have to run away. And now with her mother knowing how she felt about him …

Her boss came into the office, rolled down his sleeves and put on his coat. He looked over her shoulder a moment. Her fingers trembled as she turned a page.

“You scared of me, kid?”

“No sir.”

“I hope not. I don’t like nobody scared of me but my wife, and she won’t scare easy.”

Katie merely stared at the order book.

He nipped her chin with his forefinger. “That’s a joke, honey. Look, kid, get that order in the mail and knock off for the week-end. It’s too damned hot around here for working.” He took his hat from the hook. “The lock’s set, but see that you slam the door. Happy week-end.”

“Thank you Mr.—” she started, but he was already gone.

She managed a few moments’ concentration and finished the order. She stamped it and laid it in the drawer on top of her purse. Friday night’s supper was at five-thirty, she calculated, cold fish and hard-boiled eggs and salad. Every Friday night she did the dishes while her mother dressed and went to the Ferrero’s to play pinochle. Ordinarily she was gone from the house by six-thirty. She did not return until almost midnight. In that time, surely she could persuade Tim to the lightness of her scheme. He could get his things and she could pack a few pieces of clothing …

Her heart was pounding and her mouth was dry. The thought of facing her mother in that long hour of waiting through supper was more than she could endure. She would betray them, crying, laughing foolishly …

She went to the washroom and let the cold water run over her hands and wrists. She cupped the water in her hands and bathed her face. The first lines of prayers came to her but slipped away, unfinished. This was something in which, somehow, she could not ask God’s help. Returning to her desk she called her mother and told her that she had to work late.

W
ORKING LATE, MRS. GALLI
thought, hanging up the phone. Working late. Leave the dishes for me, mama. Don’t worry. I got paid, don’t worry. Go to Mrs. Ferrero’s like every other Friday night. Don’t worry. Leave them alone in the house to plot and scheme, to run off together maybe.

Panic began to overtake her. Was this to be her life from now on? Was she to have to watch one of them every minute? She picked up the phone and dialed the bakery. When her brother-in-law answered she asked for Johnny.

“Gone?” she said, after a moment. “He can’t be gone. Ped, please run upstairs to his room. It’s very important.”

“I can’t run upstairs. It won’t do no good.”

“Please, Ped, go anyway.”

“I tell you, Lenore, he’s gone. Monday he’ll be back. I know. I’m all by myself. The ovens are killing me.”

“But he didn’t tell me,” she said.

“He don’t want to tell you. Him and another fellow they got the automobile. They go up to the country some place, play the concertina for a dance. I tell him he lose the business. What does he care?”

“What does he care,” she repeated and hung up.

She was still standing at it when her brother-in-law called back. “What’s the matter, Lenore? Do you need something?”

“I need my children,” she said almost in a whisper, and then loud enough for him to hear, “It’s all right, Ped. Everything’s going to be all right.”

F
ATHER DUFFY RANG THE
doorbell of the parish house at St. Ambrose. While he waited, he turned idly on the steps and glanced down the street. A man standing on the corner was watching him. He tipped his hat and the priest recognized Goldsmith. This, then, was it, he thought. The trail was almost ended.

The housekeeper came, taking off her tea-apron. The rector and his assistant were at supper and they had guests, but on Father Duffy’s insistence she took his message in. He watched Goldsmith from the parlor window while he waited. The detective turned away then, looked at his watch and went into a tavern on the corner. Straining to read the lettering on the window, the priest made out the name
KREPIC’S.
He watched the building for a time that seemed without beginning or end. From the rectory dining room came the sound of laughter. The pastor was in no hurry to leave the table.

“Sorry,” he said when at last he came. “I have guests from the chancery office. What can I do for you, Father?”

Father Duffy turned and introduced himself. He drew Brandon’s picture from his pocket.

“Yes, I’ve seen him,” the pastor said, his impatience in his voice. “I don’t know him well at all. Just by sight. A very fervent sort of fellow. Something about him suggestive of the seminary. I shouldn’t be surprised …”

Father Duffy could not wait. “Do you know where he lives, Father?”

The pastor thought about it. “I shouldn’t be surprised if he lives with Mrs. Galli. A boarding house down the street. I’ve seen him at Mass with her daughter.”

“Her daughter?” Father Duffy repeated.

“Katerina. A beautiful girl. The two of them make a very devout couple.”

“How old is the girl?”

The pastor straightened a picture on the wall while he thought about it. “Sixteen or seventeen. A bit young for that fellow. But it sometimes happens. These people marry young, you know. Marry young and raise large families.”

“Can you give me their address, Father?”

“Not right off, I can’t. You might try the phone book. The mother’s name is Lenore. Keeps a boarding house. A widow. If they don’t have a phone, I can look it up on the parish lists for you.”

Father Duffy found the address in the phone book.

K
ATIE WATCHED THE HOUSE
from the doorway of a condemned building halfway up the block. She clutched her pocketbook until the buckle left its shape deep in the palm of her hand. As people passed she ducked to her knee and pretended to fix the strap on her shoe. No one must recognize her and talk to her now. She didn’t think she could speak to anyone in the world at that moment except Tim. She heard the church bell ring at six o’clock. Every moment that passed after that was a labored hour. She tried to force herself to think of what she should do if her mother did not leave. She must think of that. She must think in terms of waiting, of persuading Tim to wait in some few secret moments snatched with him.

One of the boarders came out of the house. He had had his supper. She could see him working with the toothpick. He stood on the steps, shouting a conversation with someone across the street. He was dressed for an evening out, she could see, the sports collar outside his jacket. Why didn’t he go? He waved as the person he was talking to moved on up the street. Which way? She listened for footsteps. In this place, her back against a boarded door, she had cut herself off from flight. The footsteps came. Desperately, she lowered her head and then lifted her skirt a little, fastening and unfastening a garter. A neighbor, seeing a girl do that, would glance away and keep on going.

The man walked on, not even seeing her in the semi-darkness. She could feel the perspiration running down between her breasts. The other boarder came out of the house then, and the two men walked up the street together. She took deep, shuddering breaths of relief.

Her mother came outdoors. She paused a moment on the steps. Although her head did not move and she seemed to be looking for something in her purse, Katie wondered if she were not looking up and down the street without letting on. She decided it was her nerves, her imagination, for Mrs. Galli had taken a hairpin from her purse and with it tucked a wisp of hair into its braid. She straightened the collar of her dress, and started up the street in the direction of the Ferreros’.

Katie hung back until her mother turned past Krepic’s, and then waited no longer. Almost blindly she dashed from her hiding-place across the street and into the house.

“Tim,” she called, running up the stairs. “Tim, it’s me, Katie.”

He opened his bedroom door for the first time since Mrs. Galli had closed it behind her that morning. Katie stepped back involuntarily at the sight of him. His eyes were bloodshot and his face so gray that it was almost blue. He had gotten old since she had left him. He looked as though he had been beaten and tortured. The veins stood out like welts on his forehead. And there was a close, sickly smell from the room. “Oh, Tim.” It was all she could say. She stood limp in front of him.

“I didn’t think you were ever coming again,” he said. “But I waited for you.”

Behind him, the bedclothes had been torn from the bed. The sheets were twisted into ropes. At first she wondered if her mother had tried to lock him in the house. Then she realized the full horror of it: he had intended to kill himself.

“You’re a Catholic, Tim.” She pushed him back into the room and followed him. Something in saying the words gave her calm, strength. She could think straight.

“‘If thy right eye scandalize thee, pluck it out …’” he started, his voice a thin chant.

She whirled on him. “Shut up, Tim! Stop it! Do you hear me, you’re not to say that.”

He stopped and watched her, his lips parted.

“What have you ever done in this life but kindness? Tell me that, Tim. What have you ever done that was wrong?”

He shook his head that he did not know.

“And has anybody ever been good to you for it?”

“Many, many people, Katie. But only you, really.”

“Now listen to me, Tim. I’ve got everything planned.” She watched him pluck at the ends of the dresser scarf. “Leave that alone. We don’t have to be nervous. There’s nobody home but us. Mama’s gone out like she always does on Friday night. Remember? Are you listening, Tim?”

“You’re like the voice of angels,” he said.

“We’re going to leave, Tim. You and me tonight. I’ve got enough money for a little while. It’ll get us some place on a bus. We’ll figure that out on the way. It’s summertime. We can live outdoors. I’ll get a job and you can write. What did you do with your poetry?”

“What?” he asked stupidly.

“Your poetry, your writing. Where is it?”

“I destroyed it. I burned it up piece by piece in a little can in the park.”

“Why, Tim? What on earth made you do that?”

“It was like … like that.” He pointed to the twisted bedsheet.

“Oh no. It was good. I know it was good.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you wrote it, dear stupid man.” She met his eyes and forced him to look at her.

The tears came to his eyes and he turned away.

“Will you come, Tim?”

He nodded slowly that he would.

“Everything will work out. I know it will, Tim. Turn around and listen to me. We’ve got to hurry. The farther we get away, the better. I don’t know what mama will do. She doesn’t know you like I do. She doesn’t understand. Where’s your clothes?”

“I don’t know.”

“You lost them. You lost your tool kit too, didn’t you?”

He nodded.

“Maybe we can buy another one if you get a job for a while. It might be easier for you to get a job than me. We’ll see. I’ll find some old shirts of Johnny’s. Have you been in here since this morning?” Again he nodded.

“You’ve got to go down to the icebox and get something to eat. You’ve got to do that, Tim. I haven’t time. We’ve got to hurry.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re weak and we won’t have time to eat. We’ve got to save our money. Tim …” She put her hand on his shoulder and turned him around. “Do you want to do this?”

“More than anything in the world,” he whispered.

“Look at me. Look at my eyes.”

He obeyed her.

“I love you, Tim.”

She was gone from the room the instant after she had said the words. He fumbled about the bed, trying to unfold and smooth the twisted sheets.

“T
AKE ANOTHER LOOK AT
him,” Goldsmith said, the picture in his hand. “You’ve seen him. Think about it. Who was he with? A young girl, maybe?”

Krepic glanced at the picture again. “Sure I seen him. I know I seen him. Maybe yesterday, maybe last week. How many men go by here with young girls? I ask you, how many couples? It’s summer. They go walking.” He slapped his hand on the bar. “This I know. They don’t come in here. Them what come in, I know.”

Goldsmith turned around. He had been watching for the priest through the bar mirror. The glass was deceptive, murky. The priest might be quicker. And he could not follow him, anyway. Wherever the priest intended to go, he might pass up if he knew the police to be on his coattail. The detective glanced from the parish house to the police call box. Three patrol cars were waiting, their radios set. For what, he thought. The only course left to him now was canvassing, house by house.

While Goldsmith stood here, his back to the bar, Mrs. Galli made the turn at Krepic’s. Stopping at the side of the window and turning back there to watch her own house from the shadow of Krepic’s entrance, she was directly in the detective’s line of vision. He watched her hand fumble for the side of the building to support herself. A distraught woman, he thought. He changed his position that he might see her better. Her face was distorted with rage or some other violent emotion, her mouth twisted almost into a grimace. She was breathing hard.

“Who’s this woman out here?” Goldsmith asked.

Krepic looked around. “Mrs. Galli. Lives up the street. A customer of mine. Every Saturday night, three quarts of wine …”

“Does she have a daughter?” Goldsmith snapped.

“Yeah, she does. Nice kid. Say, the old lady looks bad. What’s the matter with her?”

“Why don’t you get her in here and give her a drink?”