Seducer (12 page)

T
HE NIGHT WAS COLD
and overcast. The dead moon reflected the light of the hidden sun sporadically and briefly in the intervals between black cumulus clouds. The thin light filtered, such times, through a rough lacery of bare branches to form tremulous patterns of shadow on the concrete walk.

Maggie’s flat heels on the same walk were barely audible in brisk tempo to Maggie’s own ears. Her shadow, when the moon was out, fell across the patterns of shadow. Through her teeth, a companionable hiss, she whistled off-tune the
Londonderry Air
.

She crossed an intersection, and there ahead was Brad’s house, the middle one of three on that side of the street from corner to corner.

Houses were not built close together, of course, in a fine residential area, and it suited Maggie’s purpose tonight that they weren’t. The lots were deep, moreover, with high hedges between houses for privacy, and the more privacy there was, she thought, the better.

She passed the house, slowing her pace slightly. At first she thought it was completely dark, but then she saw through a small pane set high in the front door that a dim light was burning in the lower hall. No others were visible up or down.

Passing the boundary hedge, she quickened her pace again, her flat rubber heels picking up their previous tempo. Less than a minute later, at the next corner, she turned left to the alley that divided the block, then left again without hesitation into the alley and down it to a rear gate, set in a rough stone wall, that opened into the Cannon back yard.

Through the gate, she found herself on a flagstone walk. She went up the walk toward the rear of the dark house. Midway, in an interval of thin light when the moon broke free, she noticed to her left, in the center of a circular dais of ground, a concrete basin with a kind of stone bowl on a pedestal standing up in the middle.

The basin was a fish pool, obviously, although there was neither water nor fish in it now, and the stone bowl was actually part of a fountain, which was now dry. She had always admired pools and fountains, and she stopped for a moment or two on the flagstone walk to observe this one. It was easy to imagine how pretty it would be in a summer night when the moon and stars were near and warm in an uncluttered sky and the light struck smaller stars from the flowing fountain and the overflowing bowl.

She could even hear the slight, musical ripple of water falling in drops into the basin. She stopped whistling through her teeth to listen to the music, but then the moon was overtaken by another cloud, and the fountain went dry again, and the music stopped. Moving on up the flagstone walk, resuming her off-key hissing of the
Londonderry Air
, she reached a door to a back porch at the head of three steps. Quickly she went up the steps and inside.

Across the porch was a door to the kitchen. At this door, Maggie hesitated for the first time, as if the way hereto had been familiar but was strange from here on, so that she had to stop and study and recall directions.

She was, in fact, hesitating because she was reluctant to test a sudden depressing conviction that the door would be locked. If it were locked, it would mean that Brad had changed his mind in fear and guilt, and then there would be nothing left for her to do but turn and go away and give up for good and all the last hope of everything she had so carefully planned.

She had again stopped whistling in the brief period of her hesitation. Now she reached out and turned the knob all at once, to get it over with. The door swung silently inward, and she slipped through into the dark kitchen with a sigh of relief.

She lowered her body carefully in the darkness, bending at the knees and holding herself erect from the hips. With one gloved hand she groped blindly near the floor where the jamb met it, and her fingers touched and grasped something hard and round, like a handle.

When she had taken the object into both hands, standing again, she could tell by touch that it was not a handle at all, but a short length of pipe such as might have been left by a plumber and put away to meet a possible future contingency which had not then included in anyone’s mind, certainly, the present one of murder.

Maggie’s eyes were becoming accustomed to the thick darkness that seemed to stir silently all around her. She could make out across the room two closed doors, widely separated, and she went across and opened one to discover the dining room on the other side.

Turning away, she moved to the other and passed through into a central hall running past a staircase to the front door. Burning on a table near the foot of the stairs was the shaded lamp whose light she had seen from the street through the small pane in the door.

She walked along the hall, carrying the pipe, and turned up the stairs, ascending through the light into upper darkness. The
Londonderry Air
was now the merest whisper of breath between her teeth.

Standing at the head of the stairs in the upper hall, Maggie realized that she had neglected to get precise directions to Madelaine’s door. This was an example of the inexcusable kind of carelessness that could cause difficulties and create dangers that ought to be avoided. As it was, however, she must do the best she could as quietly as possible, although it was unlikely, if Madelaine was heavily sedated, that a little noise would disturb her.

The hall crossed the house from side to side, perpendicular to the hall downstairs, and Maggie moved left from the head of the stairs. She had decided that Madelaine would certainly have a front corner room, that being a choice location, and she was heading for the appropriate door to try it, but she stopped on the way and tried another door first.

The room beyond was large and very dark, drapes drawn across windows in the opposite wall. From the pocket of her coat, Maggie took a small flashlight, hardly bigger than a pocket cigarette lighter, and turned it on. The narrow, bright beam played back and forth, showing her that the room was regularly used, and that it was used regularly by a man. Brad’s room.

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. The playing beam picked out another door, leading to a closet or a bathroom. If to a bathroom, there was probably a way to the room beyond, which must be Madelanie’s. Following the beam across the floor, Maggie tried the door, opening it into the bathroom she expected.

A moment later she was standing between the closed door behind her and the closed door ahead of her, confined briefly in a small tiled room between intention and action.

Quickly now, she opened the door to action and paused at the threshold listening, the flashlight off. She could hear clearly in almost total darkness the sound of Madelaine breathing so deeply and rhythmically that it resembled the breathing of someone under the effect of ether.

The beam of the flashlight, renewed, crept from Maggie’s feet across a pastel carpet and found the bed. In the bed it found Madelaine, who did not move. Maggie, following the beam again, stood beside the bed.

In her right hand she held the length of pipe. She stood there for several seconds, looking down at the sleeping woman with an effect of detached appraisal. Suddenly Madelaine made a harsh, strangled sound, as if her breath had clotted in her throat. The harsh sound was followed instantly by a whispering cry, terror striking through sleep from some strange sense of danger, and she reared up in the bed on the verge of waking.

Maggie struck savagely with the length of pipe. With all her strength she struck again. After the second sodden sound, she stepped back and waited, alert and listening, but there was no further sound or movement, and so, after a minute, she turned on the bedside lamp.

Madelaine lay twisted aside in the bed, her arms spread wide. Her body was still covered to the hips by a sheet and a nylon comforter, but they had been jerked awry by the threshing of her legs between blows. There was a ruddy seepage in her hair, just above the hairline, and already the beginning of swelling. She was clearly dead.

Maggie examined her dispassionately, her head cocked. She seemed almost to be listening for something inside herself, a voice or sound. In fact, in a way, she was. She had never killed anyone before, and she had been curious to learn how she would feel after the act.

Now, the act completed, she was not really surprised that she felt very little at all. Long ago, as a child, she had discovered that she did not respond to the claims of pity and remorse as other children did. The deaths of pets and friends left her unmoved to any more than a cursory wonder as to the apparent vagaries of death, and she was unfamiliar with genuine grief. She had once thought that this indicated a grave deficiency in character, but later she had come to consider it an advantage in many ways, for it left her free from the effects of crippling emotion.

Madelaine’s position in the bed was exactly right. It implied clearly that she had been struck while trying to rise in bed, having wakened to surprise an intruder. This was precisely the implication Maggie had intended to accomplish, even if it had meant arranging the body after death, which would have been a disagreeable task, to say the least. Now this was not necessary, thanks to Madelaine. Things had worked out beautifully with no extra effort.

Laying the length of pipe on the table beside the lamp, Maggie walked over to Madelaine’s dressing table and examined with intense interest a silver comb and silver-mounted brush and mirror, members of a set, and several jars and bottles of creams and lotions and scents.

Opening a drawer, she found a quilted jewel box. She took it out and opened it and fingered covetously the costume jewelry it contained — pins and ear-rings mostly — letting the pieces roll off the tips of her fingers and back into the box. They were of no great value, but they were very pretty. She would have liked to take a few away for her own use and pleasure, but she decided that it would not be wise.

Turning away, she saw the sliding doors of a huge closet. Crossing to the doors, she pulled one back on its runners over the other, exposing part of a long row of dresses on hangers, all kinds and colors and materials, and she took one of the dresses down, a black wool sheath, and held it against her for size.

It was much too large, which pleased her and made her feel somehow superior, and she moved over in front of the mirror of the dressing table, still holding the dress against her, and examined her reflection in detail, trying to imagine how she would look in the dress if it were cut down to fit. She tried several other dresses in the same way, holding each against her in front of the mirror, and she had to admit that they were all very nice and in the best of taste Even the least of them was, moreover, far more expensive than any dress she had ever owned.

Closing the closet at last, Maggie returned to the bedside table and retrieved the length of pipe. She had been quite curious about Madelaine, and out of curiosity had enjoyed seeing and handling some of Madelaine’s personal things, but now she had lingered long enough, she thought, and had better go. Without looking at Madelaine again, she turned off the light and went out directly into the hall and downstairs.

She threw the length of pipe into the dead weeds of a vacant lot on the way home.

T
RAJAN WAS THE NAME
of a Roman Emperor. It was also the name of the detective-lieutenant who was assigned to investigate the murder of Madelaine Cannon.

Trajan, the detective, was an obese man who suffered from a chronic condition that he referred to as acid indigestion. He really knew very well that acid indigestion is not a condition which is at all likely to be chronic, for he was not stupid. But a deep and tortuous fear of the truth, or of what might turn out to be the truth, kept him from getting a more accurate diagnosis. He was given, naturally, to much belching, and he always carried in his pocket a tin snuff box filled with milk of magnesia tablets which he bought for economy’s sake in large bottles.

The tablets were ineffective, except for the slight psychological effect of a placebo, but chewing them gave him a feeling of doing something constructive and sensible, and he was prevented by their laxative power from consuming them in sufficient quantity to do him any particular harm. His breath was sour, and his disposition was as sour as his breath. His attitudes were controlled by a kind of graduated scale of hatreds. The degree of his hatred for any particular person, place or thing could be measured by the expression of a pair of sick little eyes buried deep in folds of pasty flesh.

His hatred of Bradley Cannon was intense. It was not merely a sudden development, an instant reaction, but a virulence that had lain dormant within him, fully grown and festering, for the time when Brad would come along to claim it.

The presence of this sick hatred in the room was as real and ugly in its implications as the body on the bed. From the moment of their meeting more than an hour ago, Brad had been convicted in the mind of Trajan of the murder of his wife. Neither the conviction nor the hatred was diminished in the least by evidence that Brad had been elsewhere when the murder occurred.

Now, standing by the bed and looking down at the body for at least the tenth time, he belched and rubbed the big belly hanging over his belt. Feeling no particular pity for the dead woman, he derived a deep and dark satisfaction from damning her killer.
The son of a bitch
, he thought.
The arrogant, slick son of a bitch
.

Turning away from the bed and the body, he began again to prowl the room, opening drawers and looking into the closet, all of which he had opened and looked into before, and finding nothing conspicuous either by its absence or its presence. No sign of burglary. No sign of searching. No sign of anything at all but murder. The body of a woman in an undisturbed room. Not even the weapon. Not even the single, lousy, lucky break of a weapon dropped and left behind. His thick lips slack, his hips and huge bottom quaking like an enormous woman’s, he rounded the room and came back to the bed.

“Where in hell is that God-damn coroner?” he said.

In his place near the bathroom door, where he had been standing almost motionless for the past twenty minutes, Detective Latreel Freeman shrugged and looked away from Trajan. Freeman was a thin, fastidious man, gray and dry and aseptically clean, and he found his superior revolting. The sight and smell of Trajan made him uneasy in his stomach.

“I told you,” he said. “He’s on a hospital call. He’ll be here as soon as he can.”

“That’s the trouble with having a lousy practicioner as coroner. Every time you need him, he’s out running down a God-damn case of measles or something.”

“Pregnancy.”

“What?”

“I said pregnancy. He’s delivering a baby.”

“Jesus Christ. He may be at it half the night.”

“Maybe. It won’t make a lot of difference.” Freeman executed an abbreviated gesture in the direction of the bed. “This one’s in no hurry.”

“That’s right. She don’t mind waiting at all. But I do. You think I got nothing better to do than hang around all hours waiting for a dead woman to be pronounced dead?”

“I wouldn’t know. Have you?”

Trajan turned his sick little eyes on Freeman, but the latter was staring at nothing special in a far corner of the room, his dry, gray face cleaned carefully of all expression. Trajan knew very well that he was offensive to Freeman, and the knowledge gave him a bitter pleasure. Contempt prevented him from exaggerating his inferior’s significance, but he did accord the frail detective the distinction of a minor hate. He belched and rubbed his belly, then fished in a pocket for the can of magnesia tablets.

“Where’s Cannon?” he said.

“Where you said to put him. Downstairs in the living room.”

“I’ll go down and see him. You stick here.”

“The guy’s tired and shook up. You’d have better luck if you sent him to bed and talked with him in the morning.”

“Bed? You think a guy whose wife has just been murdered could just go off to bed and go to sleep like nothing had happened?”

“He could take something. There are such things as sedatives, you know. Or hadn’t you heard?”

“I heard, Freeman. I know. I also know you’re a God-damn smart-aleck.”

“Am I? Sorry.”

“You’re right about this guy’s sleeping, though. He wouldn’t have any trouble at all, and he wouldn’t need the help of any sedative. He’s the kind of son of a bitch who could crawl right into the same bed with the body and go to sleep.”

“You think so? I hadn’t formed that opinion yet. It seems to me he’s pretty upset, but I haven’t got your insight into character, of course.”

“See what I mean, Freeman? A God-damn smart-aleck. That’s what you are.”

“I heard you before, Lieutenant. A God-damn smart-aleck.”

Trajan wheezed, his big belly quivering. His tongue slipped out to wet down his thick lips, leaving visible traces of the white magnesia. His flesh-enfolded eyes looked yellow in the light, as if he had been for a long time on atabrine.

“You’re sharp, Freeman. Real sharp. Big brain. Big heart.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant.”

“It’s a wonder to me how a guy so smart got left behind. I wonder why you’re not the lieutenant and I’m not just a plain detective. It don’t seem fair, does it, Freeman?”

“Things happen, Lieutenant. Who knows why? Maybe you got some ideas about it.”

“A few, Freeman. I got a few. One of them is that you got no guts. You got no guts for your job. You bleed too much and too easy, Freeman. You even bleed for a lousy murderer. A wife-killer.”

“I don’t bleed. I don’t start off hating and accusing, either. I wait for some evidence.”

“He stinks, Freeman. He stinks of murder, and he’s guilty as hell.”

“He must be a magician, then, as well as a murderer. He wasn’t even here. He was at a meeting. There are at least six unimpeachable witnesses to it.”

“I know. Half a dozen crack-pot professors. I’ll talk to them myself later, Freeman, and not over the telephone. Next time I won’t leave it to you. There’s something wrong, and I’ll find it. You’ll see. It’ll turn out he was away for a while, long enough to commit murder, and they just forgot to remember it. Something like that.”

“I doubt it. College professors aren’t the absent-minded idiots that illiterates like to make them out.”

“Meaning me for one, Freeman?”

“Are you illiterate, Lieutenant? I thought I saw you reading a newspaper once. Maybe you were only looking at the comics.”

“Maybe.” Trajan’s pasty face flushed a little and quickly drained again, having more than ever the color and texture of old and yeastless dough. “You despise my guts, don’t you, Freeman? You think I’m a sick, sadistic son of a bitch, don’t you, Freeman?”

“I’d rather not answer those questions, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind, Freeman. I don’t mind a damn. I know God-damn well what you think without any answers, and I couldn’t care less. Why the hell should I care about the opinion of a miserable little puke like you?”

Trajan belched again and rammed his fat fingers under his belt, pressing inward against his belly. His lips twisted in disgust at the taste in his mouth.

“You better go to a doctor about that, Lieutenant,” Freeman said. “It might be cancer.”

Trajan left the room without another word, walking across to the door from the bed with short, quick steps, almost mincing, that seemed somehow obscene in relation to his gross body. He gave no overt sign of the obsessive fear, aroused by Freeman’s words, that kept company inside him with his possible malignancy.

Descending the stairs into the lower hall, he passed a policeman in uniform and went into the living room where Brad sat slumped in a chair in front of the cold fireplace. Dragging a straight chair into position alongside, Trajan sat down and leaned forward. Laughter, secret and sour, stirred within him when Brad’s head turned away from a current of polluted breath.

“How are you feeling?” Trajan said.

“Very tired and confused.” Brad looked at Trajan and away. His voice was apathetic, his eyes lusterless.

He appeared to be in a state of shock. “I simply can’t believe it. It can’t be true.”

“It’s true, all right. Your wife’s dead. Murdered. What time was it when you found her body?”

“I told you that before. A little after eleven. When I came home from a faculty meeting.”

“Who else was at the meeting?”

“Members of the department. The Mathematics Department. I gave the names to the other policeman. Freeman. He wrote them down.”

“Yes. So you did. He’s already checked with some of them, but I’ll check again. I’ll check and check and check, and maybe sooner or later someone will remember something significant he had been forgetting before.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. It’s just the way I work. Are you sure you can’t think of anyone who would be glad to have your wife dead?”

“God, no! Such an idea is fantastic. It must have been a burglar. Someone who killed her when she woke up and surprised him in the room.”

“Nothing was taken. You said so yourself. What kind of burglar takes nothing away with him?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps he didn’t have time. Perhaps he became frightened and fled after killing Madelaine. It’s reasonable to assume that he did.”

“Now that’s a nice thing about being on a case where a bright guy like you is concerned. He’s always available to tell me what’s reasonable and what’s not reasonable. Being reasonable, Dr. Cannon, you might care to comment on the fact that there was no sign of breaking and entering. No window jimmied open. No door forced. No sign at all of B & E. Does that seem reasonable? Does that seem like burglary?”

“The back door must have been left unlocked. He must have tried the door and simply walked in.”

“The back door? Why? Why not the front door?”

“Because I left by the front door, and I remember locking it. It was still locked when I returned home.”

“You don’t remember locking the back door?”

“No. As I recall, I neglected to check it.”

“Were you usually so careless?”

“Usually, when I went out alone at night, my wife was up and presumably locked it herself.”

“But tonight she had gone to bed early. Isn’t that what you said? With a sick headache.”

“That’s right. She took a sedative and went to bed.”

“Did she frequently have these headaches?”

“Quite often. I suppose you could say frequently.”

“It all worked out pretty conveniently, didn’t it?”

“Conveniently? I don’t understand.”

“Well, for this hypothetical burglar who didn’t steal anything. You gone, your wife in bed under sedation, the back door unlocked. Wouldn’t you say that was all pretty convenient?”

“What in the name of God are you implying?” Brad demanded.

“Am I implying something?”

“It seems to me that you are, and it may be that you’ll regret it. Frankly, Lieutenant, you’ve been as offensive and brutal under the circumstances as you could possibly be. You may be sure that I’ll say so to the county attorney, who is a friend of mine, at the first opportunity.”

Trajan stood up. He looked down at Brad with dull and venomous eyes, his hatred alive and virulent and wholly irrational. It occurred to him that it might be smart to start looking for another woman. A great, griping pain was in his belly, and his belch, which he could not restrain, had the effect of a deliberate and vulgar insult.

“You do that, Dr. Cannon,” he said. “You talk to the county attorney.”

He heard an ambulance pull up in the street at last, and he turned and walked out into the hall.