George Axelrod: Blackmailer

When the big one had finished in the kitchen he went into the bedroom. He dumped out all the bureau drawers. Went through all my clothes. He ripped up the mattress with a long, ugly razor blade in a holder. He rolled back the rug and searched under it.

He shredded the curtains, and took down the pictures. He broke open the picture frames and examined the backs. He cut up my three suitcases into ribbons.

He was in no hurry at all.

I could feel the pulse pounding in my head. I watched the whole thing as if it were a dream or a movie or something that I was in no way involved in. I felt like a spectator. And my mouth hurt.

At one point the telephone rang. Nobody said anything. The tall one did not even stop his methodical searching. I made no move to answer it. It rang seven times. Finally it stopped.

When the tall one had finished with the bedroom, they both went to work on the living room. They took down every book on the shelves, dumping each one on the floor when they had finished with it. They went through every cupboard. They tore up the upholstery, and ripped the back off the TV set, and tore the radio phonograph apart. They held the whisky bottles up to the light but they didn’t break them.

They were suspicious of one table. They broke the legs off it and examined them for secret hiding places.

The blinds were drawn, but they examined them without actually opening them or tearing them down. They broke the big mirror that had hung above the fireplace and examined the wall behind it. They smashed three pottery lamps.

They did it all with no unnecessary noise.

Very methodically.

Completely impersonally and without emotion.

They went through all the papers on my desk. They examined every paper in my file. They went back to the kitchenette and ripped the electric clock off the wall.

When they had finished, everything breakable in the apartment was broken, every movable object was piled on the floor, and every piece of fabric had been ripped open. Cushions on the couch and the two easy chairs were foam rubber, so they did not pull them apart.

The search took them over two hours.

And they still had not found what they wanted.

There was no conversation between the two men. They seemed to know exactly what they were doing. The tall one picked Jean Dahl’s beaver coat up from the chair, went through the two pockets and then, very carefully, starting with the lining, cut it to shreds with his razor. Then the short one sighed and motioned to Jean Dahl.

“Shoes,” he said.

She did not speak, but she made no move to give him her shoes.

He reached down and slapped her face very hard. He did not do it as if he enjoyed doing it. He did it in the same way that he had wrecked the apartment. Coolly, professionally.

Then he said, “Shoes.”

“Go to hell,” Jean Dahl said.

He slapped her face again, even harder. He slapped her so hard her head snapped back. His hand left a bright red welt on her face. She did not make a sound.

“Shoes,” he said.

Jean Dahl leaned down and took off her shoes.

They were black pumps with high heels. He broke off the heels, examined them, ripped out the lining with his razor. He cut the shoes to pieces. Then he threw them on the floor.

“Get up,” he said.

There was no expression at all on Jean Dahl’s face. Her eyes told you nothing. Slowly, she stood up.

“Dress,” he said.

For a moment I thought she was going to resist and he was going to slap her again.

I tried to speak but no words came out. My hands were icy cold and my shirt was soaked with sweat.

Very slowly Jean Dahl took off her dress and handed it to him.

Under it she was wearing a brassiere and half slip.

He examined the black dress with his usual care. There was no hiding place where anything could possibly be hidden. Except the shields. He tore them out and ripped them open.

“The rest of it,” he snapped.

She took off her half slip. She reached back and unfastened the brassiere. Then she stepped out of her pants.

She let them fall to the floor. He reached down and picked them up. He examined them briefly and dropped them.

She had a beautiful body, with full high breasts and slim hips. Neither of them seemed to notice.

The big one ran his hands quickly through her hair. They opened her mouth and the little one ran his finger around her teeth and gums. Their hands went over every inch of her body. Very impersonally. Very coolly.

They bent her over and the little one finished the examination using a small flashlight.

They did not find what they were looking for.

She bent down and put on her dress. She didn’t bother with the underwear.

As methodical as they had been, she picked up the junk on the table and put everything back in her purse. She picked up her underwear and rolled it into a small ball and put it in her purse too.

The little one sighed and then he turned to me.

“Shoes,” he said.

I don’t know quite what happened. I hadn’t known I was going to do it when I bent down to untie my shoes. It all seemed to be happening to someone else.

I bent down and came up again like a spring uncoiling, with my knee hitting the little one squarely in the groin. He screamed in agony and lay rolling on the floor. I picked up the coffee table and threw it at the big one.

I was screaming hysterically myself. I felt like I’d suddenly gone insane.

I saw Jean racing for the door. She was standing fumbling with the lock when the big one caught her. I hit him four or five times with a chair. I kicked him and threw myself at him when the chair finally broke. Jean darted out the door. I slammed the door hard as Jean started running down the corridor. I stood with my back to it kicking and swinging while he tried to drag me away. When he finally got the door open Jean had disappeared.

Now, suddenly, I was over my insanity.

I watched him come back into the room and very quietly lock the door.

I was sick with terror.

The little one had picked himself up off the floor. His face was still contorted with pain. The two of them moved in on me. I started to scream, but the fist stopped the sound in my throat.

It happened very fast and I’m not sure exactly what they did. They kept me conscious for a good part of it. I remember lying on the floor being kicked. That’s the last I remembered. Being kicked.

I must have been hit in the stomach, too, because I was covered with bruises and I had vomited.

I was unconscious for several hours.

And after I came to, it was another hour before I could get off the floor and to the telephone.

I described the two men to the police as well as I could. I described everything that had happened. But I did not mention Jean Dahl. And I did not mention the Anstruther book.

The police were under the impression that the place had been ransacked by hoodlums under the influence of dope. “They get coked up,” the detective said, “and they don’t know what they’re doing.”

He was under the impression that the two men had been searching my apartment for narcotics and had become enraged at not finding any. I allowed them to keep that impression.

They wanted to take me to Bellevue for an examination but I talked them out of that. My own doctor had arrived by then, and about five in the morning I checked into a hotel. I didn’t do anything about straightening up the wreckage in my place. I just moved out.

I was all right after a couple of days in bed. But it was almost a week before my face no longer scared little children.

I did not go in to the office for the rest of the week. My first public appearance was Walter Heinemann’s cocktail party Friday night.