Peter Abrahams - A Perfect Crime

That got to him. “I know.” The words thickened in his throat; he almost confessed everything, right there. But he mastered himself, said no more; she misinterpreted the catch in his voice, taking it for lust; slipped him inside herself without ceremony; moved her hips in lithe comma-shaped motions, efficient and pleasing; ended in a silent shudder, like an express elevator reaching the top floor.

She lay on his shoulder. “Was that good?” she said.

“Of course.”

And after a minute or two: “Did you come?”

“What do you think?” He squeezed her arm.

She said nothing. Not long after, she rolled over and went to sleep. The compartments in Ned’s brain reopened. The headache returned. His eyes stayed open.

Francie showered, dressed, made the bed, went downstairs. She washed her wineglass, corked the wine, turned off the generator. Then she stood unmoving in the darkness. The silence was complete, Brenda’s cottage under a spell, as it so often was.

Francie opened the door, letting in the river sounds, then closed and locked it behind her. Brenda’s key hung anonymously on her key chain, one of many. The moon had risen and in its light she saw mist along the bank, rising with the temperature; the ice had melted away. Francie climbed into the dinghy, cast off, rowed across the west channel to the stone jetty, reflected moons bobbing in her wake. She tied up, redid Ned’s knot-he’d taken Prosciutto, as always-substituting two half hitches for his series of lubberly grannies, and glanced back at the cottage: a geometric shadow under the free-form shadows of the elms. The owl rose into the sky, its white wings flashing like a semaphore in the night.

She drove to the gate, got out, locked it, went on. For five or ten minutes she was alone with dark woods rising on either side, shutting out the sky. Then headlights of another car appeared. That broke the spell; she stepped on the gas like any other exhausted commuter hurrying home, although she wasn’t tired at all.

The house-on Beacon Hill, but heavily mortgaged and in need of sandblasting and a new roof-was dark, except for the light in the basement office, a big, private space that would have made a perfect bedroom for a teenager, if one had ever come along. Francie let herself in, turned on the lights, checked the messages, checked the mail, opened the fridge, found she was no longer hungry, drank a glass of water. Then she went downstairs, through the laundry room, and stopped outside the closed office door.

“Roger?” she said. No reply. Was he sleeping on his couch? Francie thought she heard the tapping of computer keys but wasn’t sure. She went upstairs, got into bed, and was almost asleep herself when oh garden, my garden took shape in her mind, with those rotten grapes and that skateboarding girl. A teenager, of course. She tried to stop herself from going on in that direction but failed, as she always did. To come into the house, to see a skateboard lying in the front hall and a backpack slung over the banister, to hear strange music rising up from that basement room. Think about something else, Francie.

Em. She thought of Em. Em would soon be a teenager, although Francie wasn’t sure of her exact age, didn’t know her birthday. Ned almost never talked about her, never at all unless Francie asked, and of course Francie had never seen her, not even a picture. From the absent picture of Em back to oh garden, my garden wasn’t a big jump, and from there to an idea: what a present the painting would make for Ned! Was there any way of giving it to him? In some ways they were like spies, governed by the rules of their trade. She was never to call him, he called her, and only on her direct office line; no letters, faxes, E-mail; they met only at the cottage. Preserving his marriage was the reason, and Em was the reason for that. Francie understood. She could keep a secret, in the sense of not telling another person-and in any case had no desire to shout her love from the rooftops-but she hated the spycraft.

Still, presents were a gray area; he did bring her flowers once in a while when he came to the cottage. Always irises, probably because she had made such a fuss about them the first time. She didn’t particularly like irises, although it didn’t matter much. They had usually wilted by the next time she saw them, the following Thursday. Francie fell asleep, turning over schemes for getting oh garden, my garden into Ned’s hands.

Roger knew she was there, outside the door. He glanced at the time on the upper-right-hand corner of the screen: 12: 02 A.M. Was it gratitude she expected for working these late hours? He was the one who had paid for the M.F.A., those summers at I Tatti, the accumulation of all that useless knowledge she had found a use for. He went back to his resume.

Exeter, first in his class. Harvard, summa in economics, captain in tennis. Twenty-three years with Thorvald Securities, beginning as an analyst, ending as senior VP, number three man. Number three on the chart, but the brains behind everything, as everyone knew-everyone with any integrity. “Wow is all I can say,” as the counselor at Execumatch had told him at their first meeting. “Let me guess-you got sixteen hundred on your SATs.”

“Correct.”

“And in the old days yet, before they started monkeying with the numbers.”

“Old days?”

“Sure. Now you can make mistakes and still be perfect. Is that indicative or what? But this” — tapping the resume-“this is the real deal.”

Then why was he still looking for something suitable a year later?

Roger loosened his tie, closed his resume, clicked his way onto the Web, logged on to the Puzzle Club.

› MODERATOR: Welcome, Roger.

Roger made no reply; he never said anything on the Web. The next day’s Times of London crossword was up, and beside it in the Puzzletalk section some live-time discussion was taking place. Roger checked the time-12: 31-and began the puzzle. One down: a six-letter word for disorder. He typed in ataxia. Two down: seven letters, pugilist- bruiser. Three down: nine letters, to cut an X- decussate. So one across must be abduct, and four down… he tapped away at the keys, completing the puzzle at exactly 12: 42. Not his best.

Roger scanned the discussion in progress.

› MODERATOR: But what do you mean, Flyboy, by a quote perfect crime????

› FLYBOY: One they cant finger you for it, of course.

› MR. BUD: Finger you? Sounds like a bad EdGRobinson flick.

› REB: No such animal. But perfect crimewise you cant be anywhere near the scene, not w/DNA and all that shit. Flake of dandruff falls off your head, you fry.

› MODERATOR: So you get someone to do it for you, is that it?

› FLYBOY: Right = and they get busted for some other caper and rat you out rotb.

› MR. BUD: You are a bad movie Flyboy.

› MODERATOR: rotb????

› FLYBOY: right off the bat.

› MR. BUD: Jesus.

› REB: But he’s right. A perfect crime = it’s got to be absolutely unconnected = like someone in China pushed a button. Click. You’re dead.

› FLYBOY: Or a penny drops off the Empire State Building. Goes right through your skull to the sidewalk.

› MODERATOR: A penny drops off the Empire State Building????

Roger left the Puzzle Club, switched off the screen, removed his tie and shoes, lay down on the couch, pulling a blanket over himself. He laughed aloud. The vulgarity, the ignorance displayed on the Web for everyone to see: had they no self-awareness at all? He closed his eyes, called up the image of his completed Times of London puzzle, word for word, perfect, done. Ataxia: that was the problem with the world these days. Perhaps he could slip it in during his breakfast interview.

A window table at the Ritz.

“Roger?”