Ричард Деминг - Manhunt. Volume 3, Number 1, January, 1955

This time I let it ring for long after I ran out of fingers on both hands. Andy’s a very quick girl in the shower, and I began to wonder just where the hell she was, or what the hell she was doing. I folded the tabloid, put it under my arm, and caught a cab. When I reached her brownstone on East 68th Street, I paid and tipped the cabbie, and then climbed the steps rapidly. I didn’t bother ringing the downstairs bell, I went straight up to the third floor, knocked on the door, and waited.

I knocked again.

“Andy!” I yelled.

I pounded on the door this time, using a closed fist, and then I tried the knob. The door opened easily, and that was when I felt the first touch of panic. In all the time I’d known Andrea Mann, she’d never left her door unlocked, even when someone was in the apartment with her.

The living room was empty. A desolate-looking, pom-pommed house-slipper lay on its side near the television console. The set was still tuned to the channel that carried Rocketeers earlier that evening, but the name comedian who filled the screen was playing to an empty house. I looked into the kitchen and found a cork-tipped cigarette burnt down to an ash in the tray where Andy had left it. That was when I ran into the bedroom.

It was empty, as empty as a tilted beer keg at two in the morning. The bedcovers were pulled back neatly, and I figured Andy had been watching television for a while, planning to hit the sack early. A closed book rested on the night table alongside the bed.

The closet door was open, and something — probably an overcoat — had been ripped so violently from its hanger that the surrounding garments were all lying in a disconsolate heap on the closet floor.

Andy’s slip, brassiere, panties, and stockings were draped over the back of a chair near the closet wall. Her purse was on the dresser. I knew then that she’d been taken from the apartment, and hadn’t left of her own accord. She’d probably been in pajamas or a night gown, and her abductor had thrown her into an overcoat and then forced her to accompany him. I didn’t waste any more time theorizing.

I went back into the living room and quickly dialed Homicide, and when Detective-Sergeant Hilton came on the wire, I told him what I’d found.

“All right,” he said, “don’t get excited. I’ll get an APB out on this right away, and we may be able to pick them up before they get very far. In the meantime, this may be the best break we’ve had yet.”

“How do you mean?” I asked, hardly able to think of Andy’s abduction as a “break.”

“Tomorrow’s Friday,” he said. “You’ve got a show on Friday, haven’t you?”

“Yes. But...”

“Whoever grabbed Miss Mann may figure it’s not safe to leave her alone. He may stick with her tomorrow, and then all we have to do is count heads at the studio. The missing guy is our man.”

“Except for one thing,” I said.

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“Suppose he kills her first?”

“If he was going to kill her, why snatch her? He could have done it right in her apartment.”

“Maybe he’s working up the courage.”

“That’s the chance we have to take. Meanwhile, I’ll get an I sheet out on her, and maybe one of the radio cars will spot her. Whatever you do, don’t start worrying, Jon.”

“All right,” I promised. “Did you talk to her this afternoon?”

“Yes. She told me just what she’d told you — but she couldn’t remember anything pertinent that was said.”

“Then whoever grabbed her did it all for nothing.”

“Not anymore. She’ll sure as hell know who the guy is now.”

“Then he’ll have to kill her,” I said.

“Maybe not. Maybe...”

“Don’t snow me,” I said. “I’m a big boy now.”

“All right, all right. Maybe he will. Chances are we’ll get to him first. Like I said, if his mind was already made up he’d have killed her already. Maybe he’s squeamish about taking another life.”

“Or maybe he’s taking her out to the country where he can do the job properly,” I said miserably.

“You start worrying,” Hilton said, “and you can dream up all kinds of junk. Just keep cool. If he stalls until tomorrow and doesn’t show up the rest is duck soup.”

“ If he stalls,” I said.

“He might. Jon, we’ll be doing everything we can.”

“All right,” I said.

“I’ll keep in touch with you.”

“All right.”

“Now don’t start worrying all over the place.”

“I won’t,” I lied.

“Give it ’til tomorrow.”

“Sure. Sure.”

We gave it ’til tomorrow. None of the alerted policemen spotted anyone filling the description on the I sheet, so we waited until rehearsal time the next day. Dave Halliday showed up first, and Stu Shaughnessy walked in about ten minutes later. The Cadet and Marauder came in shortly after that. Felix Nechler was checked on, and he was reported being on the floor of Macy’s furniture department where he’d been selling sofa-beds ever since he lost the producing job.

We went through the rehearsal, and by show time that night there was only one man who hadn’t showed up for his job.

Artie Schaefer.

We didn’t know at the time that he was lying dead in his apartment, an ice pick sticking out of his chest.

I went along with Hilton because we figured this was the showdown, and I wanted to be the first to put my arms around Andy after we wrapped up Schaefer.

He was not a pretty sight to see, unless you like looking at dead men. The ice pick made hardly any blood at all, and perhaps that’s what made it harder to believe he was actually dead. It stuck up out of his chest at a grotesque angle, and a tiny trickle of crimson flowed from the tiny hole. He’d been a handsome man, Artie Schaefer, but the good looks had turned waxy and false in death, and he looked like a caricature of himself. I looked down at him, and then I turned away, a hard lump in my throat. If the killer had murdered Artie, then I was sure Andy was already dead.

This was not the showdown we’d expected. This only complicated things, and the murderer was still running around loose somewhere.

“Why don’t you just round them all up?” I said to Hilton. “You know it’s one of them. Why don’t you arrest them all and beat the truth out of them?”

“I may,” Hilton said. “Even if it means risking a pile of false arrest charges.”

“What about Andy now?” I said. “He’s sure to kill her now. He’s killed twice already. For God’s sake, Hilton...”

“There’s no figuring the homicidal mind, Jon,” Hilton said. “You can’t establish any sort of pattern for these goddamned things. Look, he may have killed Cynthia for what seemed like a good reason. He may have killed Schaefer here for what seemed to him like an equally good reason. That doesn’t mean he’ll kill your Andy. It doesn’t mean that at all. Maybe he hasn’t got a strong enough reason for killing her yet. Maybe he’s still debating it.”

“He’s killed two already,” I almost shouted.

“That doesn’t mean he’ll kill three. That’s a common fallacy, Jon. Everybody figures the first one is the hardest. After that, killing comes easy. It isn’t true. The first one is really the easiest. It’s usually done in rage, and it’s all over before you know what happened. It’s the ones after that which are difficult. It’s those that are usually planned and committed cold-bloodedly. It’s those that make the murderer realize he is actually doing murder. Those are the tough ones, Jon.”

“All this talk...”

“I’m just trying to explain something to you. He may have already killed your Andy — but he may not have. We’ve had guys who’ve killed ten, twelve people. And then they’ll walk into headquarters one day and confess. They just couldn’t kill any more. Look at...”