Peter Abrahams - A Perfect Crime

Whitey halted. “You killed her because of that?”

“If I’ve gone too far, forgive me, Whitey. It was with the best intentions. And what kind of a life did she have, anyway? The crux of the matter is that we’re partners. Share and share alike. If you’ve spent any time in this house, you know a certain amount of wealth is represented. Why, the Arp alone is worth its weight in gold.”

“What’s an arp?”

“What a character you are,” Roger said. “He was a famous sculptor, and I’ve got a rare piece of his, down on the bookcase in the living room. For your next birthday, shall we say? Why don’t we go down and take a peek at it?”

“Fuck that,” Whitey said. And that look in his eye, the one Roger didn’t like, which had faded a bit, intensified. Unaccountable.

“I hope I haven’t offended you, Whitey. As your partner, the last thing I’d want to do is violate your amour propre in any way.”

Whitey made a little flicking gesture with the blade of the ax, as though warding off insects, came closer, close enough for Roger to see the tiny drops of pus seeping through his stitches. “Killed her and set me up for that, too.”

“No, no, no. Didn’t you hear what I just said?” Heard, but not understood. Yes, dumb, a dumb animal, almost preverbal. How to put it in his vernacular, to accord him the respect his like always craved? What is the right vulgarism? Something bodily, no doubt. How about: “I wouldn’t step on your toes, Whitey. Not for anything.”

The expression in Whitey’s eyes worsened dramatically, became animal, in fact, and Roger’s mind flashed a quick memory of the eyes of a wolverine he’d cornered in the boathouse at the Adirondack camp as a boy. “But you did step on my toe, you son of a bitch,” Whitey said, and raised the ax.

Not getting through, not getting through. Roger’s brain was frantically pursuing various strategies, spinning with permutations and combinations, scattering scraps and tailings of this or that scenario in the mental air- think, moron, think- when the door opened at his back.

Francie peered out, blinking in the light.“What’s all the noise, Roger?” she said. “And I smell something odd.”

“Impossible,” Roger said. “It’s completely odorless.”

Francie’s eyes adjusted to the light. She saw the second man, recognized him at once from the police photograph-Whitey something. His eyes, awful eyes, locked on hers. She looked to Roger. “What’s going on?”

“Improvise,” Roger said, more like a mumble, as if to himself.

“What are you talking about?”

“The chaos butterfly,” Roger replied.

“I don’t understand you.”

Roger snapped his fingers. “But I understand you,” he said, “only too well.” He pointed at her, his eyes every bit as awful as Whitey’s but in a different way. “There’s your manipulator, Whitey, at long last. This is your big chance. The only chance you’ll ever have. I can’t dumb it down any more than that. Don’t blow it.”

Odorless? Manipulator? Butterflies? What was he saying? Francie opened her mouth to speak, but Whitey spoke first.

“I won’t blow it,” he said. “But she’ll keep.”

“No,” Roger said, “that’s specious reasoning, if we can even dignify it with the term. You can’t possibly-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Whitey said, and swung the ax like a baseball bat-Roger’s eyes incredulous-swung it so hard Francie heard it whistle in the air, right through Roger’s neck, the blade sinking deep into the wall. Then came a horror of spouting blood and screams, hers and Whitey’s, and in that time of horror and nothing else, with the ax stuck in the wall, Francie had her chance, too, her only chance, to get away, but she froze.

The screaming stopped. Whitey jerked the ax out of the wall. He stared at her. “You’re just like her,” he said, “but way better.”

Francie closed the robe at her throat. Was he talking about Anne? Anne’s killer, talking to her like this? She shook, but felt nothing but fury. It washed away everything else-horror, fear, grief, confusion.

“Never,” she said.

“What do you mean, never? I haven’t even said anything yet.” He came toward her, still holding the ax, but in one hand now and low, the blade dripping.

“Never,” Francie said, and heard for the second time that day the sound of her inner voice, her true voice.

“You got that wrong,” Whitey said, still coming. “Like right now is when, while we got this buzz buzz happening. It’s going to be incredible. Master’s away and puppet plays. Fuckin’ poetry.”

His free hand flashed out, very quick, got hold of Francie’s robe. “Don’t you touch me,” she said, and kicked him in the groin with every bit of strength she had. He doubled up, blocking the hall. She kicked him again, not as accurately, and got both hands on the ax, yanked it, but not free. He held on. They wrestled for it. And fell, rolling down the bloody hall, coming to the top of the stairs with him on top, the ax handle caught between them. Whitey wedged his forearm into her throat.

So heavy. So strong.

“Going to be even better now,” Whitey said. “I like all the smells. ” He arched his back, pulled at the ax handle, forced it slowly up between their bodies, the blade slicing through Francie’s robe. He gazed down at her, his face a foot away. “I’m going to come in holes you don’t even have yet.”

Every hair on her body stood on end. Never. Francie got a hand free, tore at his face, tore and tore and tore, ripping out the stitches, redoing all Anne had done, and more. Whitey screamed, jerked aside. Francie scrambled out from under him, grabbed the ax, rose, and was starting to swing it when he charged up from under her, inside the arc, caught her in the stomach with his shoulder, and she went down with him on top again, and again they were rolling, but this time down the stairs, Francie, Whitey, the ax, rolling, tangling together in-what was it? A garden hose. Francie got her hand on the hose, whipped a length of it around Whitey’s neck as they fell, tried to jam it between the banisters, tried to break his neck, but he punched her, full in the face and very hard, and she let go.

Then they were on the floor in the hall, and Whitey was up first, both lips split wide, baring all his teeth. Bleeding all over, but up first, and with the ax, while she was still down-and everything had gone snowy, like bad reception.

“Nice try,” Whitey said, looming over her. He raised the ax.

The hose: wrapped around his ankles. Francie rolled aside, but so slowly, as the ax came down, and pulled, but so weakly, on the hose. Whitey lost his balance, almost fell, but didn’t. Francie heard the thunk of the blade sinking deep, felt no new pain. Whitey went still.

“You stupid bitch,” he said.

Francie, on the floor, saw his leg, inches away, and the ax, buried deep in his thigh, and high up.

“Thought you could trip me?” he said. “With my sense of balance?”

He pulled the ax out, stood over her, started his backswing-but blood came gushing from his leg. Francie could hear the flow. He gazed down at what was happening, went white. He toppled over soon after. Francie lay on the floor as the warm pool grew around her.

Splintering sounds at the front door. Francie sat up. The door cracked open. Savard burst in, and others. They said, “Oh, God,” and things like that.

He knelt beside her.

“Sorry I’m so goddamn slow,” he said. “You all right?”

“No.”

He took a long look at Whitey.

“Why are you looking like that?”

“I don’t mean to be looking like anything.” He turned to her, the savage expression still on his face. “I owe you,” he said.