Брендан Дюбуа - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2006

Finally, our leaving Cathy in Steve’s benign company, my dropping R. J. at the Appleton police station to garner whatever information he could concerning the body found in Jason’s burned-out car, and my problematical attempt at interrogating the last unknown character of any consequence in the affair, save Jason Harnisch himself.

Yet, even given Steve’s half flippant inquiry — “So which is worse? Suicide or murder?” — all three Carrs, father, mother, and son, viewed with distrust the appearance of horrific tragedy in the events thus far. Something — the tone, perhaps — was wrong. Mischief still seemed the operative term. There was a staginess to the proceedings that belied their bleakness, and if Steve was to be believed, the third young woman, Liz Clarke, seemed to share our skepticism.

Just after touching the bell button a second time I heard approaching footsteps, and a few seconds thereafter not the anticipated young woman but a young man stepped out into the vestibule. He and I examined each other beneath the 40-watt bulb, his view being that of a woman two months short of fifty, of average height with black hair, dressed seasonably in corduroy slacks, heavy boots, and a down-lined coat. My prospect, in contrast, was that of a well-formed, college-age youth, shaved bald and beardless except for a straggling mustache, fairly tall, and dressed also for the outdoors in high-top boots, insulated pants, and a long coat with a parka top folded down.

“You’re looking for Kirsten?” he asked.

“Yes. Kirsten Postlewaite.”

“She sent me down—” He rolled his eyes slightly in an uncertain way. “—sort of to check up first. She’s not feeling well, and there’s... a little trouble going around.”

“Concerning Jason Harnisch? That’s why I’m here, I’m afraid.”

“Oh. Well.”

“I have just a few questions to ask. I’m one of the guidance counselors, and there’s some concern on campus, as you may imagine, about what’s been happening. The rumors—”

“The rumors?” He made the same uncertain ocular movement. “I guess. She’s sick, but maybe you could come up. Sure. She might say no, but—”

I followed the young man along an interior hall and up two long flights of dimly lit stairs. “She’s at the back,” he mouthed over his shoulder, and when I drew alongside him at the end of the top floor hall, he turned with a foolish grin on his face and said, “You’re not one of the counselors, you know. They’re all ugly and stupid looking.”

In his hand was a small pistol almost like a starter’s gun, but with the sharp point of a heavy nail protruding from its barrel. “Let’s go inside.”

My feelings at this precise moment were a complex mingling, of which fear constituted the smallest and least relevant part. I felt relief primarily — for the young man surely was Jason himself and no other, notwithstanding his shaved and glistening skull, and therefore he wasn’t a suicide but an ongoing player in his own game, whatever that might be. As to the question of his being a murderer, I had no opinion, but I was hoping to form one shortly.

My next strongest feeling — paradoxically, perhaps, considering the grotesque firearm pointed at my abdomen — was compassion, both for the young man and the others concerned, especially his cousin Cathy Lindner, whom I liked very much upon meeting, if for no reason other than her intrepid response to Jason’s erratic behavior. The depth of my compassion for the unknown, Kirsten, in contrast, depended almost entirely upon what I found after passing through her apartment doorway, which I did in silence, eyeing the young man and being eyed in return.

The apartment consisted of two “rooms” joined at an arch, a kitchen-dining area to the left and a living area to the right, with two chairs, a table, and a large futon doubling as a sofa. A bathroom opened off the kitchen, and I ascertained immediately that the young woman wasn’t anywhere in the apartment.

“She’s not here,” the young man admitted. “Even the cat’s gone. And so I’m waiting. Lurking. Skulking.”

“You’re Jason, of course.”

“Possibly. Who are you? Possibly.”

“I... The truth is I am a school guidance counselor. And although I don’t counsel at Lawrence, there is concern about you there. My name is Virginia Carr. My husband is a private investigator who was hired by Swenson Equipment Rental to recover the stud gun you have in your hand prior to your doing anything with it that you might regret. In that regard he’s far too late, of course, but if you were to give it to me voluntarily—”

“No!” The virulence of his response was superseded almost instantaneously by another rolling of his eyes. “Kirsten first. Where is he? Your husband?”

“I’m not sure,” I lied. “He dropped me here.” Another lie. “That is, a student on campus, never mind the name, gave us several possible leads and I volunteered to question Kirsten because that’s rather in my line. How did you break into her apartment?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“True enough, why should you?” After observing him for a moment I said, “May I?” Whereupon I ventured to remove my coat and sit on a chair at the dining table. Then I placed my purse and the coat on the table and continued, “It’s my understanding that you’re almost destitute, Jason. It may be none of my business again, but—”

“I’ve got seven dollars left and a pocket full of change, not that it is your business. I’ve maxed out two credit cards, I owe two months rent here, and the phone company’s collection department would very much like a corrected mailing address. If one existed.”

“Then you’ve been living in your car?”

“No.”

“Thank goodness for that, considering—”

“Considering. You are so right.” He removed his coat but remained standing with the stud gun pointed at me. “It was a junker anyway, and I couldn’t afford new plates. Plus the insurance runs out in three weeks. Money makes the world go round.”

“I–I heard that you stayed with relatives over the Christmas break, but before that—?”

“A guilt-stricken friend, nameless and fameless, helped me hide right in this building, right under the nose of Downtown Management Company, God bless its corporate soul.” He rolled his eyes shamefacedly, as he had not for a while. “It was strictly a favor to get me through finals. So I’ve made my own bed, sleeping down by the boiler with the mice. You think I’m kidding.”

“No. But—” I laid my purse flat, then opened it and peered inside. “I know for a fact that you have other friends, Jason. And if money is the only difficulty, my husband and I would—”

“Stop! I don’t know you. I don’t want charity. I just don’t...” His eyes panned wildly around the room before focusing on my face again. “No more talk, okay? I’m through with talking. When I wanted to talk, everybody blew me off, so let’s not say anything. I won’t bother you, if you won’t bother me, and oh, what a quiet, pleasant place this place will always be. And that way you’ll also be safe. Probably.” He gestured with the pistol. “I make no guarantees.”

My gaze followed his to Kirsten’s apartment door, and only then did I notice the ominous nailpoints, four of them, protruding like spikes from the opposite side.

“Cathy Lindner—”

“Shut up!” The pain in his face matched the anguish in his voice, and so I relented. Instead I checked the interior of my purse again to make absolutely certain that the handle of the target pistol was as I wished, then I sat back in the chair and looked at my watch, wondering how much longer it might be before R. J. came hunting for me. Or the girl Kirsten decided to come back. Or something else happened.