The Longest Second (8 page)

Attl,
in Arabic, means “kill.”

I was frightened too.

BURROWS was on the lobster shift, twelve midnight to eight
a.m.
in the morning. Because of his new assignment, he decided to wait until later in the morning ... all day if necessary ... until information began to come in. He had heard nothing more from Jensen and deduced from his silence that the bureau of identification had failed to come up with anything. It was still too early, at eight o’clock, for information to arrive from Washington.

But it was not too early for Burrows to report to Lieutenant Scott, in charge of the detectives at the Eighth precinct. Scott arrived promptly at eight o’clock. He had been at the Eighth only a little over a month, and had been transferred there from the Seventeenth where he had served five years. Under the revitalized departmental rotation system, Scott had been moved to a new precinct.

Burrows handed Scott a copy of his report, and quickly filled in, verbally, the developments between two and eight
a.m.
Scott, who shouldered many responsibilities, thought to himself, “What the hell. This case, at least, isn’t going to be a hot one, and it’s still brand new.” However, he said to Burrows, “Has everyone here had a chance to look at the stiff?”

“No,” Burrows replied, “just Jensen and me and a couple

of the uniformed men. Gorman has the body down at the lab.”

“When Gorman’s through, well try to get them moving on it Better get some pictures and put ’em up on the board.”

Burrows agreed. It was difficult to get the detectives in the precinct to go to the morgue to view the body. Reporting in three shifts, at different hours of the day, and having their own assignments to cover, few of them found time to make such an effort, unless it was a spectacular case. They far preferred to make their examination and identification from photographs whenever possible. “The prints from the photographic department should be here anytime,” Burrows said.

Scott nodded his approval. “You know,” he continued to Burrows, “that bit about the shoes and the grand bill might mean a lot of things. Back in the thirties, it used to be the custom to find a squealer in the street with a penny in his mouth. For a while, a crooked gambler would have an ace of spades in his pocket. Sometimes hoods like to get fancy ... dramatic.”

“This doesn’t look exactly like a mob killing,” Burrows said. “It might be, of course, but usually they prefer to use a gun.”

Scott was inclined to agree with this reasoning, at least to a degree. “Not a mob, not a syndicate exactly,” he said slowly. “But the job looks pretty well organized. It doesn’t look like some guy did it all by himself. The knock-off and the details were handled pretty well.”

“VIC,”
Bianca repeated, “I’m frightened. Who was that man who called you?”

I shrugged. I didn’t know. However, my calmness was returning.

“Why don’t you sleep upstairs tonight in Rosemary’s room?” she asked. “She’s gone and I’d feel more safe.” With my pad I attempted to allay her fears although I agreed to change my quarters from the basement to the top floor. I had been waiting for an opportunity to inspect Rosemary’s room since the night she had left; however, I had not wanted to be surprised by Bianca, so I had done nothing.

“I think I’ll go upstairs now and go to bed,” Bianca said. “When everything’s clear, I’ll call you.”

I nodded, and sitting down at the table began to read the paper. Some fifteen minutes later Bianca called down to me. This was the first time I had been above the street level of the house. A narrow stair ran to the second floor and opened on one side into a very small hall. A second side had a bath; the two remaining walls of the hall, opposite each other, contained doors leading to bedrooms. Bianca’s door was closed.

Switching on the light in Rosemary’s room, I looked around me. The room was small with two narrow windows overlooking the back of the house. It was attractively furnished with a four-poster bed, a marble-topped antique chiffonier, and several Victorian chairs. A long strip of mirror, with an elaborate gilded frame, stretched from the floor to the ceiling on one side of the room. Everywhere there was evidence of a woman’s former occupancy .. . cosmetic bottles and boxes on the chiffonier, a delicate odor of scent permeating the room, an ivory and silver hairbrush, comb, and hand mirror, a pair of slippers peeping neatly from behind the corner of a chair.

Undressing quickly, I turned out the light and stretched out on the bed. At the sound of the giving of the springs, Bianca called, “Are you in bed, Vic?” I knocked loudly against the side of the bed with my fist. “Good night,” she said. Deliberately I made myself go to sleep for a while.

I awakened from my regular nightmare with the dark room and the spot of light. The fine perspiration of fear bathed my body, but this was no different than usual. According to the small bedside clock, it was three in the morning. Cautiously I raised myself from the bed, moving my body very slowly, so the sound of my arising might not be announced by the springs. In my bare feet I crossed the hall, and through the door I could hear Bianca’s deep and regular breathing.

Returning to Rosemary’s room, I closed the door completely, and turned on the light. Systematically I began to search her room. When I opened the top drawer of her chiffonier, a scent of sandalwood filled my nostrils. For a moment I had a feeling of nostalgia ... a lonesome memory of having smelled it before in some forgotten moment of delight. The fleeting impression disappeared as suddenly as it had come, and I was left alone. According to Nietzsche, blessed are the forgetful: for they get the better even of their blunders.

One after another, I searched the drawers, finding nothing but stacks of scented lingerie, stockings, and clothing. In the first closet I searched the pockets of her dresses and suits, her coats and jackets; the toes of her shoes ... all standing in a neat, feminine line.

This took some time as it was necessary to move quietly and carefully to avoid awakening Bianca across the hall. Unsuccessful, sitting on the side of the bed, I permitted my eyes to explore the room. Directly above the bed was an oil painting, an original with a large white frame. Arising, I removed the picture, turning it over to examine its back; there was nothing concealed there, and the picture was returned to its original position. Carefully I inspected the chairs with their cushions and backs; next I went over the bed, inch by inch, testing the posts for concealed holes. The only object remaining in the room which I had not scrutinized was the large mirror. It was extremely heavy, and I could not imagine Rosemary having the strength to take it down and rehang it by herself. I walked over to it, and stood looking at it.

Finally I ran my finger along the edges on the underside of the glass. There was a folded piece of paper attached to the back with Scotch tape. Returning to the chair, I unfolded the note. It read:

Dear Vic:

Knowing you, I have no doubt that you will find this after I leave. I’m writing only in case I don’t have a chance to see you alone tomorrow.

You must have good reason for your pretense of amnesia and have planned accordingly. I don’t know what your plans are, but I’ve gone along with them. And I’ve taken enough chances for you that I still expect my cut, as you promised.

I’m sure I saw Amar yesterday and I’m getting scared. You can contact me under the old name at the same place.

R.

I reread the note, but it still meant nothing to me. I knew no Amar who had frightened her. At some time I had promised her a cut ... an interest... in something which I could not remember. She had another name which I was expected to know, and she would be staying at a place with which I was supposed to be familiar. The note confused me, and it filled me with a sense of helplessness. I was stifled with the silence surrounding me, caught up in wrappings of the unknown, trapped by my own ignorance of past danger.

With the morning I remembered that Bianca had once mentioned Rosemary Martin’s former apartment. Bianca gave me the address, located just off Fifth Avenue, and late that afternoon I went up to see if Rosemary was there. The apartment was situated in the east Sixties, and the building although small was pretentious. There was no doorman and the lobby opened directly off the street. The lobby was paneled and had an inlaid marble floor, and it contained six brightly polished mailboxes. I examined the names on the boxes, carefully, although there was no Rosemary Martin. The other names were meaningless ... Roache, Townshend, Curtis, Levy, Wainwright, and O’Brien. However, I jotted them down on a slip of paper. As I was preparing to leave, the inside door of the lobby, which was locked, opened and a dignified-appearing man, in his late fifties, came out. He looked at me, nodded pleasantly, and opening the street door went outside.

After a moment or so, I followed him. He sauntered down the street and on the comer of Fifth hailed a cab. I did not recognize him although it had seemed to me that his greeting had been more than the casual one of a stranger. I caught the bus down Fifth Avenue, and getting off walked over to the IRT and took the subway to Merkle’s neighborhood.

By the time I arrived, Merkle had returned home from work. “I’ve got the cards,” he said letting me into his apartment. It had not been cleaned since my previous visit. He gave me a cardboard box which held the double postcards, all of which had been prestamped. I thanked him for them, “How about staying and having dinner with me?” he asked. I didn’t care to stay, but I felt obligated and, besides, he appeared so pathetically anxious for company that I agreed. “We won’t eat here,” he hastened to explain as soon as I had accepted, “but there’s a good place right around the corner.”

We went to the restaurant he had in mind. It was a dreary one, and the food was very bad. I made the best of the situation although I could not eat much of the meal. When we parted, Merkle reassured me that I had no worries concerning the cards. He would be sure to let me know if I received replies of any value from the banks.

As I turned down Parnell Place, walking the short distance to Newton Mews, I had a feeling that I was being followed. This sensation was immediately followed by a sudden flash of memory which duplicated the identical sensation of being watched. For an instant of time I was returned to the cab of a truck. Around me was a limitless horizon of sand which swelled to the height of hills and small mountains. Throwing the truck into gear, I raced the motor; the truck lurched forward, and behind me there was a tremendous explosion. A piece of metal bit into my back. Then the memory snapped off as abruptly as it had arrived. That was all I remembered.

But I had the same sensation now, as I had in my partly forgotten memory. Turning quickly, I looked down the street. It was dark and I could see no one. This did not surprise me because in order to see anyone I would have to inspect carefully the rows of dark doorways which gaped in the houses. This I did not wish to do. Instead I continued on my way, remembering that Rosemary had seen someone named Amar. My own attackers had known that Rosemary was living in Newton Mews and had delivered me there as a warning. As she had pointed out also, they undoubtedly knew that I was still alive. And this was confirmed by the telephone call which Bianca had taken. So, quite obviously, I was being watched, and someone was watching me now.

There were several plans which I could consider. The first was to shake off my follower and attempt to disappear; there were several drawbacks to this idea. To tell the truth, I had very little money and no prospects for getting more soon. I was comfortable where I was. Also if Rosemary Martin attempted to get in touch with me after I had disappeared, she would have no way of finding me. By remaining at Bianca Hill’s, Amar, or whoever was interested in my actions, knowing where I was, would have the opportunity to disclose himself ... or his intentions.

The second plan was to permit the situation to remain the way it was for a while. This I decided to do.

Stopping suddenly, I again turned in the street, reversing my direction, and walked toward Sixth Avenue. After several blocks, I came to a hardware store which was still open at nine o’clock in the evening. Entering, I moved down an aisle between two long counters and stopped before a display of steel carving knives. The proprietor waited attentively while I selected a blade ... thin and narrow, about nine inches long, with a straight, bone handle. I pointed to it and indicated that I wished to examine it. The blade was of excellent Swedish steel. Attached to the handle was a small gummed sticker with the price, and I paid the man behind the counter from my diminishing roll of bills. I did not want to have the knife wrapped, and I slipped it in my pocket while he watched. He didn’t say a word.

When I returned to Bianca she asked me if I had eaten dinner. I told her yes. “When you didn’t return, I began to get worried,” she said. I pointed out that it would have been difficult for me to phone her. She agreed that was true, and shortly afterward went upstairs. I waited for a long time until the sound of her movements had ceased completely. Then, quietly, I went down to the basement.

Placing the knife on my finger, I moved the blade forward and back until I found the balancing-point in it. The handle was much too heavy, and with a chasing tool I hollowed a hole in the bone until I had secured the balance I wanted. Then cross-boring at a point just above the blade, where it entered the handle, I made two small holes. These I filled with silver, using the holes to anchor the metal, until the blade, at that point, only slightly outweighed the handle.

Keeping my mind entirely blank, I followed the pattern of a forgotten skill. Instinctively I held the point of the blade lightly between the thumb and index finger of my right hand, the handle falling straight down and away. Whirling sharply, I swung my arm in an overarm throw, releasing the knife which arched cleanly through the air and made one complete turn before burying itself in the wooden stairs. I regarded this with no surprise; I had known it would happen so. However, I didn’t know
why
I knew it