Michael White - The Art of Murder

‘What’s wrong?’ the prostitute asked, and then, seeing his deliberations started to giggle.

Francis looked down at her and felt a wave of nausea rise in him. He swallowed hard and drew in a gulp of cold air. ‘Nothing,’ he said after a moment. ‘Nothing at all, Bessy. Come on.’

He took her arm now and guided her into the mouth of the narrow alleyway, beyond the hubbub. The noise of the busy street faded fast behind them. If it had not been for a full moon directly overhead, it would have been impossible to see anything in the alleyway. The moon cast a steely glow over everything.

‘Where we going?’ Bessy said, her voice edged with sudden anxiety.

‘The door is just ahead,’ Francis replied reassuringly. He put his hand into his jacket pocket to jangle a set of keys. It calmed the woman and she giggled again.

Twenty yards into the alleyway, Francis guided the prostitute towards the left then suddenly spun her round.

‘Oh, Mr Bettleman,’ she exclaimed. ‘Can’t you wait, sweetie?’

Francis plunged his right hand into the lining of his coat and felt for the handle of the eight-inch knife sewn into the fabric. The handle had been left to protrude from the lining. He grasped it and pulled it out, shielding it from view behind his coat. It caught the moonlight as he swung it free.

‘Don’t move!’

The voice that had spoken behind them was male, American. Bettleman froze. The prostitute looked up at him and screamed as she took in the scene: the knife still poised in his hand, the outline of a figure behind her customer, the new arrival’s shadowed face, the pistol just visible in his hand.

‘Drop the knife. Now!’

Bettleman stood rigid.

‘Last warning, Mr Bettleman. Drop the knife.’

The weapon made a metallic sound as it hit the ground.

‘You, young woman,’ said the man with gun, and jerked his head back. ‘Get.’ She needed no further persuasion, scurrying away pressed to the wall. The man with the gun grabbed her arm as she passed him. The prostitute caught a glimpse of a pair of dark eyes over a scarf covering his mouth and nose. He was wearing a bowler hat pulled down low over his brow. ‘Say one word and I will find you,’ the man hissed, then let the woman go. ‘Turn,’ he snapped at Bettleman.

The Englishman started to and the man hit him across the left temple with the butt of the gun. Bettleman collapsed in a heap.

He awoke, moved his head, and a sharp pain shot across his forehead. He lay spreadeagled, tied by ropes at his ankles and wrists. He could just see that he was on some sort of platform or oblong table. The room was large, with a high ceiling. It was lit by tall candles on stands positioned at the corners of the room. He could just see in the far wall a massive window, and a glimpse beyond of slender, tall buildings beneath a sky lit by the bright orb of the moon.

‘You must find it strange to be in the submissive position, Mr Bettleman.’ The voice was coming from behind him, but he could not turn far enough to see who was speaking. Yet, there was something about that voice he recognised.

‘You don’t mind my calling you Mr Bettleman, do you? To me you were William Sandler. I know that with others you have used different pseudonyms.’ The man took a step closer and Bettleman suddenly knew who this was.

‘Oglebee! What the hell are you doing?’

‘Very good, Francis. In Oxford, I affected an accent to disguise the American vowels of my youth. Being back here, in the place of my birth, I seem to have slipped into old ways.’

‘Untie me, man,’ Bettleman protested, trying to turn and identify Magnus Oglebee, the mysterious figure from the soiree at Boars Hill.

‘Now why would I do that?’ he replied, and walked slowly into view. He was wearing an immaculate dark suit with a gold watch chain hanging over his waistcoat. His shirt was wing-collared, slightly old-fashioned, and he had donned a grey cravat adorned with a large sapphire pin. His head looked disproportionately small above the starched collar, almost as though his head had shrunk. His tiny black eyes revealed a dark amusement with the situation.

‘What is this all about?’ Francis Bettleman said. He could not disguise the acid tinge in his voice. ‘Is it one of your entertainments, Oglebee?’

‘Yes, in a way, it is,’ the man replied, perching himself on the edge of the table. ‘But there’s also a less frivolous side to it.’

‘Would you care to explain? Only I’m beginning to grow a little irritated.’

‘Oh, are you now, my friend?’ Oglebee mocked.

‘I’m not your friend,’ Bettleman spat, unable to contain his anger any longer. ‘I don’t take kindly to being hit over the head and then bound like an animal.’

‘No, I can empathise with that,’ Oglebee responded. Then he gave a small shrug, pushed himself off the table and walked towards Bettleman’s splayed feet. ‘I’ve closely followed your exploits in London,’ he went on. ‘I have to say “Bravo”. It was quite a performance. And …’ he produced a vague smile ‘… I feel proud that you took my advice. That I was perhaps a source of inspiration to you. I always knew you had talent.’

Bettleman took several deep breaths to calm himself. ‘Oglebee, can you untie me, please? I’m happy to chat, but this is not exactly …’

‘No. I can’t do that.’

Bettleman started to struggle but only succeeded in making the cords cut into his flesh. ‘Oglebee!’ he shouted. ‘Let me go! Or I swear …’

Magnus Oglebee appeared at his side again. ‘I take no pleasure in hurting you,’ he said. ‘But you of all people should understand that it is sometimes necessary. This is not some silly revenge I’m exacting. Far from it. I think your work has been fine. It’s just that … well, time marches on, and what you’ve been doing is a little … how should I put it? … old-fashioned.’

Bettleman stopped struggling and fixed Oglebee with consternation in his eyes. ‘What?’

‘Let me explain, Jack. May I call you that? I think it’s a good name for you — you chose it in good humour.’

Bettleman glared at the man, his fury almost palpable.

‘When I met you in Oxford — goodness, it feels like ancient history, but it was only six months ago … you told me you were searching for meaning, and then you found it in your creations. First you thought, naively, that you had to paint the murders you committed. Only later did you realise that a far higher art form would be to envision the collective acts of murder as, in themselves, the creation. It was a bold and intelligent step forward.’ He paused for a second and drew close to Bettleman’s face. ‘I have to admit, I was a little jealous of your fecundity. I have never had any artistic talent and, as I explained to you in Oxford, had given up trying to express myself through murder. But then I made a most profound discovery.’

Bettleman was staring straight into Oglebee’s tiny face, a strange feeling of dread growing in the pit of his stomach. ‘Look, old boy,’ he said, his voice surprisingly calm, almost melodious. ‘Can we not discuss this sensibly? Man to man, over a brandy, perhaps?’

Oglebee ignored him. Straightening up, he began to walk back towards Bettleman’s trussed feet. ‘And, you know, although there is nothing new about the practical nuts and bolts aspects of what I’m doing, the principles, the concept … Well!’ And he tapped his head with a flourish. ‘ These principles, these concepts, are so perfectly attuned to this …’ He swept his arms towards the view of Manhattan in all its nascent glory beyond the window. ‘The artistic drive I have discovered is so new, so modern …’

‘What are you talking about?’ Bettleman screamed.