Борден Дил - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 1, No. 12, December 1956

“Are you the gentleman I’m to see about my murder?” asked the small man. His voice was high and uncertain. He blinked rapidly behind thick-rimmed glasses.

“I’m your man, Mr. Pruyn. Bendix is the name. Lieutenant Bendix. Won’t you sit down?”

Bendix indicated a leather chair.

“Pruyn. Like in sign,” said the bald little man. “Everyone mispronounces it, you know. An easy name to get wrong. But it’s Pruyn. Emery T. Pruyn.” He sat down.

“Well, Mr. Pruyn.” Bendix was careful to get the name right. “Want to go ahead?”

“Uh — I do hope you are the correct gentleman. I should hate to repeat it all to someone else. I abhor repetition, you know.” He blinked at Bendix.

“Believe me, I’m your man. Now, go ahead with your story.”

Sure, Bendix thought, rave away. This office lacks one damned important item: a leather couch. He offered the small man a cigarette.

“Oh, no. No thank you, Lieutenant. I don’t smoke.”

Or murder, either, Bendix added in his mind. All you do, Blinky, is read the papers.

“Is it true, Lieutenant, that the police have absolutely no clues to work on?”

“That’s what it said in the papers. They get the facts, Mr. Pruyn.”

“Yes. Well... I was naturally curious as to the job I had done.” He paused to adjust his glasses. “May I assure you, from the outset, that I am indeed the guilty party. The crime of murder is on my hands.”

Bendix nodded. Okay, Blinky, I’m impressed.

“I — uh — suppose you’ll want to take my story down on tape or wire or however you—”

Bendix smiled. “Officer Barnhart will take down what you say. Learned shorthand in Junior High, didn’t you, Pete?”

Barnhart grinned from the back of the room.

Emery Pruyn glanced nervously over his shoulder at the uniformed policeman seated near the door. “Oh,” he said, “I didn’t realize that the officer had remained. I thought that he — left.”

“He’s very quiet,” said Bendix, exhaling a cloud of pale blue cigarette smoke. “Go on with your story, Mr. Pruyn.”

“Of course. Yes. Well — I know I don’t look like a murderer, Lieutenant Bendix, but then—” he chuckled softly, “—we seldom look like what we really are. Murderers, after all, can look like anybody.”

Bendix fought back a yawn. Why do these jokers pick late afternoon to unload? God, he was hungry. If I let this character ramble on, I’ll be here all night. Helen will blow her stack if I’m late for dinner again. Better pep things up. Ask him some leading questions.

“How did you get into Mrs. Sloane’s apartment?”

“Disguise,” said Pruyn with a shy smile. He sat forward in the leather chair. “I posed as a television man.”

“You mean a television repair man?”

“Oh, no. Then I should never have gained entry since I had no way of knowing whether Mrs. Sloane had called a repair man. No, I took the role of a television representative. I told Mrs. Sloane that her name had been chosen at random, along with four others in that vicinity, for a free converter.”

“Converter?”

“To convert black and white television to color television. I read about them.”

“I see. She let you in?”

“Oh, yes. She was utterly convinced, grateful that her name had been chosen, all excited and talking fast. You know, like women do.”

Bendix nodded.

“Told me to come right in, that her husband would be delighted when he got home and found out what she’d won. Said it would be a wonderful surprise for him.” Mr. Pruyn smiled. “I walked right in carrying my bag and wearing some blue coveralls and a cap I’d bought the day before. Oh — do you want the name and address of the clothing store in order to verify—”

“That won’t be necessary at the moment,” Bendix cut in. “Just tell us about the crime first. We’ll have time to pick up the details later.”

“Oh, well, fine. I just thought — well, I put down my bag and—”

“Bag?”

“Yes. I carry a wrench and things in the bag.”

“What for?”

“To use as murder weapons,” smiled Pruyn, blinking. “I like to take them all along each time and use the one that fits.”

“How do you mean?”

“Fits the personality. I simply choose the weapon which is, in my opinion, best suited. Each person has a distinctive personality.”

“Then—” Bendix watched the little man’s eyes behind the heavy lenses, “—you’ve killed before?”

“Of course, Lieutenant. Five times prior to Mrs. Sloane. Five ladies.”

“And why have you waited to come to the police? Why haven’t you confessed before now?”

“Because I chose not to. Because my goal had not been reached.”

“Which was?”

“An even six. In the beginning I determined to kill exactly six women and then give myself up. Which I have done. Every man should have a goal in life. Mine was six murders.”

“I see. Well — to get back to Mrs. Sloane. What happened after she let you in?”

“I put down my bag and walked back to her.”

“Where was she?”

“In the middle of the room, watching me. Smiling. Very friendly. Asking me questions about how the converter worked. Not suspecting a thing. Not until...”

“Until what, Mr. Pruyn?”

“Until I wouldn’t answer her. I just stood there, in front of her, smiling, not saying a word.”

“What did she do?”

“Got nervous. Quit smiling. Asked me why I wasn’t working on the set. But, I didn’t say anything. I just watched the fear grow deep in her eyes.” The little man paused; he was sweating, breathing hard now. “Fear is a really wonderful thing to watch in the eyes of a woman, Lieutenant, a lovely thing to watch.”

“Go on.”

“When she reached a certain point, I knew she’d scream. So, before she did, I clapped one hand over her mouth and kicked her.”

Bendix drew in his breath sharply. “What did you say?”

“I said I kicked her — in the stomach — to knock the wind out of her. Then she couldn’t scream.”

Quickly Bendix stubbed out his cigarette. Maybe, he thought, maybe... “Then what, Mr. Pruyn?”

“Then I walked to the bag and selected the knife. Long blade. Good steel. Then I walked back to Mrs. Sloane and cut her throat. It was very satisfying. A goal reached and conquered.”

“Is that all?” Bendix asked.

Because if he tells me about twenty-one cuts, then he’s our boy, thought Bendix. The kick in the stomach could be, just could be, something he’d figured out for himself. But, if he tells me about the cuts...

“Oh, there’s more. I rolled her over and left my trademark.”

“What kind of trademark?”

The small man grinned shyly behind the thick glasses. “Like the Sign of the Saint — or the Mark of Zorro,” he said. “My initials. On her back. E.T.P. Emery T. Pruyn.”

Bendix eased back in his chair, sighed, and lit a new cigarette.

“Then I removed the ears.” He looked proud, “For my collection. I have six nice pairs now.”

“Wouldn’t have them with you, I don’t suppose?”

“Oh, no, Lieutenant. I keep them at home — in a box, a metal box in my antique rosewood dresser.”

“That’s it, eh?”

“Yes, yes, it is. After I removed the ears, I left and went home. That was three days ago. I arranged my affairs, put things in order, and came here to you. I’m ready for my cell.”

“No cell, Mr. Pruyn.”

“What do you mean, Lieutenant?” Emery Pruyn’s lower lip began to tremble. He stood up. “I... I don’t understand.”

“I mean you can go home now. Come back in the morning. Around eight. We’ll get the details then — the name of the clothing store and all. Then, we’ll see.”