The Longest Second (5 page)

“I don’t know what your plans are, Vic,” she told me, her voice flat and low, “but be careful. I don’t want to get hurt Do you understand?”

I shook my head, “No.”

“Cut the act,” she said. “Good night and sweet dreams.” She returned upstairs.

That night I dreamed about the dark room with its spot of light again. All night, after Rosemary’s visit, I stood waiting in my nightmare, bathed in a dripping fear, for whatever it was to appear.

THE
body had been removed. The lights flooding the small area had been turned off, and Gorman was preparing to leave. Jensen and Burrows, however, continued to hold him in conversation. Gorman fidgeted restlessly behind the wheel of the car from the Medical Examiner’s office. He was anxious to return to the laboratory and begin his post-mortem examination.

“That was a real rough blow he took,” Burrows said.

“It was nearly complete decapitation,” the doctor replied. “Yeah, right across the neck,” Jensen agreed. “How do you figure it was done? With an ax?”

“No,” replied Gorman, “it wasn’t an ax. An ax isn’t wide enough along the blade to make such a wound possible with a single stroke.”

“There was only one stroke?” asked Burrows.

“As far as I can tell right now.”

“It must have been a hell of a knife,” observed Jensen. ' “I’m not sure it was a knife, either,” said Gorman slowly. “At least not a knife in the sense you’re using it. A single blow such as the one delivered would require an extremely long and heavy blade.”

“Possibly a ... well, bayonet?” asked Jensen.

“Or machete,” added Burrows.

“Something along that line,” agreed Gorman. “I’ve got to get going now,” he said turning the ignition in his car, and: pressing the starter. “I’ll get my report to you as soon as I can.”

“When will that be?” asked Burrows.

“A preliminary report at least by noon,” replied the doctor.

“Wait! Just one more question,” urged Jensen. “Would you say that it took a lot of strength to deliver a blow like that one?”

“It would require an extremely strong man,” replied Gorman. He threw the car in gear, pulled away from the curb, and headed down the street, his lights picking out the neat, old-fashioned houses in the night.

Jensen and Burrows stood alone together, each occupied with his own thoughts. A single patrol car remained in the street, waiting patiently to drive them to the precinct house. No predawn light trembled in the sky. It was the lonesome time, the most lonesome hours of the night.

Finally Burrows said, “I don’t suppose it hurt much. It was a lousy way to go, but it was fast.” He turned and began to make his way toward the patrol car.

Jensen followed him. The night air was chilly, and he shivered a little in the cold. Jensen, the same as Burrows, was a methodical man and he considered his partner’s remark. Slowly he agreed. “Yeah, pretty fast. Not as fast as a gun maybe, but pretty fast just the same. Only trouble was, you might be able to see it coming.”

BIANCA
said, “Of course it’s possible to buy your silver already refined, rolled, and ready to use. It comes in sheets, like those over there, and in any gauge. But somehow I prefer to smelt and roll my own silver. Did you know that pure silver is not really pure?”

I shook my head and continued pumping the foot bellows to the small furnace.

“Well, it isn’t. For each kilo of pure silver, seventy-five grams of copper has been added, otherwise it would be too soft. She opened the peephole door on the side of the furnace and peered in. Within the furnace, the crucible, a ceramic jar used for melting silver, glowed brightly. She nodded and closed the door. “Naturally,” she continued, “I don’t try to draw my own wire; that’s an impossible job really. However, I do smelt my own heavy silver because then I can charge more money for it.” Bianca walked over to a table and picked up a clipboard on which there was a sketch of a bracelet. The drawing was clean and crisply executed and showed a heavy, simple, silver band. Through the center of the bracelet was a single, light, wavy line which I, at first, thought to be a stylized thick-and-thin line.

“How do you like it?” she asked, handing me the drawing.

I wasn’t especially interested one way or the other, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings by appearing indifferent. So I took the drawing and examined it. Immediately into my mind flashed the words
“Allah ma’ak.”
Standing motionless with astonishment, being unable to understand my thoughts, I dropped my eyes to the drawing again, and the words repeated themselves, chainwise,
“Allah ma’ak, Allah ma’ak, Allah ma’ak.”
The stylized line through the middle of the bracelet was a single line of Arabic writing with the phrase
“Allah ma’ak”
repeated over and over.

In the next moment, I knew the phrase meant “God be with you,” and then the rest of the phrase popped into my memory, the rejoinder
“Allah yittawie omrak
—May God lengthen your days.” Before I could think about it longer, Bianca said, “Take the tongs and lift the crucible out of the furnace.” There was a pair of heavy tongs with insulated handles, and grasping them I lifted the ceramic jar, filled with molten silver, from the furnace. “Pour the silver into those trays,” Bianca directed, “filling them just exactly to the top.” The silver spread swiftly over the iron pans as I poured it. “We’ll let it harden until it’s ready for the rolling machine,” she added.

Putting aside the tongs, I again looked at the drawing. “Well, do you like it?” Bianca asked.

I nodded. Then I walked over to the bench and began writing, “Where did you get the idea for this center design?”

After reading my question, Bianca explained, “Rosemary had a bracelet ... Arabian; as a matter of fact she has some very lovely jewelry. I’ve never particularly liked Eastern design, but this line of writing on it gave me an idea. I narrowed down the line, straightened it out, until it nearly forms a design itself. I think the result is rather interesting.”

I didn’t say anything. Walking into the shower room, I turned on the light. Building within me was a conviction that I was on the verge of discovering something important about myself. I’d had the feeling that I was thinking, writing, working in one world; this world was the present. Behind me, lost in my memory, was another world, another way of thinking, speaking, living. It seemed, if I could only for a moment pierce this veil of limbo surrounding me, that I would find the answer to myself.

Looking into the mirror, I examined my face. It appeared to be much the same as any other face. I wasn’t dark, there were no special racial characteristics present, and there was nothing unusual in my appearance. Obviously, I didn’t look as if I were Arabian, Moorish, Syrian, or of other Eastern descent Why, then, I asked myself, should I be able to read Arabic. Turning away from the mirror I said, within my mind,
“ma'alesh
—no matter.” After that I refused to think about it further.

The next day the front doorbell rang while we were at work, and Bianca asked me to climb the stairs to answer it Opening the door, I saw Santini standing there. He pushed his hat toward the back of his head. Changing his mind, he took it off entirely and stepped inside. “This is nice and cozy,” he said. “Who are you, the maid?”

Bowing slightly from the waist, I stood to one side and waited for him to say something else. “I wish I could make up my mind about you,” he said. “I really wish to hell I could.” We walked down the short hall to the kitchen, and then he inquired if Bianca Hill was around. I nodded, and pointed to the stairway leading to the basement. Santini went to the head of the steps and called down.

Within a few moments, Bianca appeared in the kitchen. “I’m sorry to bother you, Miss Hill,” Santini said, although his voice was not apologetic, “but this is the first time we’ve all three been together since the night Mr. Pacific was ... indisposed.”

“Yes,” Bianca replied, “yes, I know.”

Santini asked me, “Why did you head for this place just as soon as you got out of the hospital?”

Bianca hastened to save me the trouble of writing. “He told me he wanted to thank me,” she explained to Santini.

“And he was so grateful he moved right in?”

Bianca flushed. “Not at all!” she replied indignantly.. “He had no place to go and no job. So I hired him to help me.”

Santini glanced at me for confirmation. I don’t know why it was he seemed to dislike me so much. Not that I really cared whether he did or not. It was a matter of indifference to me. Instead of nodding my reply, I returned his stare. Finally he faced Bianca and asked, “Did you ever see this man before that night?” Bianca denied that she had ever seen me. “All right,” said Santini, “what about Rosemary Martin?”

“She wasn’t even here when it happened,” replied Bianca. “I didn’t ask that,” Santini continued doggedly. “Did she ever see him before that night?”

“Not that I know of. Furthermore, she didn’t even want me to hire him, when she first saw him here.”

“Smart girl,” Santini remarked to himself.

I held up my hand, a pupil requesting permission to recite. Santini looked at me, and I began to scribble. “Question: Do you know how I got here that night? Walk? In car? How?” After reading it, Santini said, “You must’ve been in a car. No one can walk around the streets nude, even in Greenwich Village, without someone seeing him.”

“Did you find his clothes?” Bianca asked.

“No,” replied Santini, “we never found them. He might have been knocked unconscious in a car, and his clothes cut off him.”

“Why do you say his clothes were cut off?”

“Because he had his shoes on. It’s hard to remove clothes over shoes, ’specially if a guy’s unconscious, and shoes themselves are hard to take off. Pacific was stripped down to prevent a quick identification.” Santini began walking to the front of the house. He continued, “But what I can’t figure is why he was dumped out here.”

“At that time of night,” Bianca pointed out, “it’s very quiet and dark here.”

“There are plenty of other places which are quieter and darker,” Santini told her. “After removing the clothes against identification, why not unload the body someplace where it’ll take a few days to find it?”

“I don’t know,” Bianca said quietly.

“I don’t either,” Santini agreed, and he departed. Suddenly I knew. Not that I remembered anything about it, but I knew the reason why I had been dumped from a car on Newton Mews. It was a warning to someone who would recognize me, but not have to identify me publicly. Who was that person? I didn’t believe it was Bianca Hill. Bianca had found me by accident when she came home. Rosemary Martin? But what connection would I have with her?

Where had Rosemary been at that time? I scrawled the question to Bianca. “Rosemary,” she told me, “was working out of town. She was in a big, three-day style show in Chicago.” I couldn’t imagine either of the two women being mixed up in it, so if it was not to be a warning to them it must be to someone else living in or near Newton Mews.

We went back down to the basement Bianca picked up a chasing tool and began work on a pair of' earrings. “You know, Vic,” she said, “possibly you might be able to get some information from the Army, or the Veterans’ Administration in Washington.”

I doubted it. Santini had, unquestionably, covered that thoroughly. Unless he was holding back information, he didn’t know any more of my past than I did. I couldn’t remember the men I’d served with; I could recall no Army friends; and it was not logical that my commanding officers would have known me well enough to offer any information after all these years. But what about Colonel Horstman? Perhaps I had known him well; possibly he might have been one of my superior officers. His name had been one of the first to come back to me at the hospital. My instinct urged me strongly that I had once had a close identification with the man. If I could locate him, he might help me.

Drawing my pad to me, I asked Bianca if the name Colonel Horstman was familiar to her. “No,” she replied, shaking her head. At least, it eliminated him as a well-known public figure, although it did not disqualify the fact that I might have seen or heard his name publicly. However, I wrote to Bianca requesting her to call Santini and ask him to secure information from Washington concerning a possible Colonel Horstman whom I might have served under. She agreed to call him later, as she thought that Santini might not have had time to return to the station.

At dinner that evening Bianca and I were alone. Rosemary Martin was eating out. Each night she was always away for dinner, and I thought she was doing it to avoid me, although Bianca assured me this was not so. However, Rosemary seldom remained out late; usually she would return to the house around ten or ten-thirty. This, as far as I could determine, had nothing to do with morality, and was concerned only with the subject of sleep. She needed eight to ten hours of sleep each night to do her work.

Leaving the table, I headed toward the front door. Bianca asked if I were going out. I nodded that I was. “Do you want me to go with you?” she asked. I indicated that I didn’t, and she looked at me rather strangely as I went out. Walking several blocks, I found a drugstore.

In the Manhattan telephone directory, I located a restaurant which specialized in Arabian cooking. The address was about midtown. I wrote it down on my pad of paper, and leaving the drugstore found a taxi, and I handed the driver the address. While he was driving me there, I felt the sensation ... an anticipation that I was on the verge of discovery. The nearly mystical feeling of having, at one time, existed in another time and place and person was stronger than ever.

The Garden of Plenty was located on a side street The entrance was framed in neon tubing, and customers climbed a craggy set of stairs from the street to the second story of the building. The cafe was lit with a flat, gray light; the room was bare and undecorated except for tables and chairs, and a small cashier’s desk. There was nothing on the walls, and no coverings on the floor. It was past nine o’clock, and at this time of night there were only half a dozen persons having dinner.