Evan Hunter - A Horse’s Head

Mullaney was cold and he was frightened.

A light was burning in the stonecutter’s cottage. He crept around the side of the house, the gravel crunching underfoot, the wind billowing into his jasmine shirt. There were ghosts in the adjacent cemetery, he knew, tall apparitions in soiled winding sheets, eyesockets staring, skeletal fingers grasping. Bony women cackled on the wind, withered lips pulled back over toothless gums, their voices echoing on the fitful air. As Mullaney approached the lighted window, a shutter banged, and banged again, and his heart thumped, and he almost ran. A tree in new April leaf suddenly whipped its branches across the sullen night, rattling fresh leaves. Somewhere a cat shrieked in terror and was still again.

Teeth chattering, Mullaney peered into the cottage.

McReady the stonecutter was sitting at a small table. He was eating a sandwich and pouring schnapps from a brown bottle. Mullaney watched as the old man bit into the sandwich. It was a deliciously monstrous concoction, a huge wedge of French bread stuffed with what seemed to be at least fourteen different kinds of meats and cheeses. Mullaney, remembering again how hungry he was, watched enviously as the old man clamped his teeth into the crisp brown bread. Savagely, McReady tore loose an enormous bite, chewed it with obscene enthusiasm, and then washed it down with a huge swallow of whiskey. Smacking his lips, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and then brought the sandwich into biting position again.

Mullaney’s eyes narrowed.

He was hungry, and frightened, and cold, and whereas he philosophically reasoned that most cruel acts in this world were perpetrated by people who were either hungry, frightened, or cold, the knowledge did not prevent him from devising a cruel little act of his own.

He had already relegated blame for the switched money to McReady, arguing that he would now be in possession of half a million dollars had McReady not performed his sleight-of-hand. But worse than the money swap was the solitary and selfish indulgence taking place inside this cottage on the edge of the cemetery. McReady’s feast was assuming the dimensions of an onanistic orgy. Relentlessly, he chewed and swallowed, poured and drank, licked his lips and belched in contentment. What I’m going to do to you, Mullaney thought in rising anger and greed, is scare you out of your wits, old man. I am going to rap on the window here and pretend I’m one of the ghosts howling out there in the cemetery, come to get you for your many many sins among which are substituting paper scraps for money and making a pig of yourself swilling good food and liquor before the very eyes of a starving horseplayer.

The anger with which he had conceived his malicious plan gave way to the sheer enjoyment of contemplating its execution. Chuckling, he hunched down below the window, his eyes level with the sill, so that he could watch McReady’s reaction unobserved. Oh boy, he thought, this is going to be good, and he raised his knuckles toward the pane, giggled, and rapped sharply on the glass.

McReady looked up.

The expression on his face was similar to the one that had been on Henry’s when Mullaney yelled “Boo!” from the coffin. He nodded. Then he took another bite of his sandwich. Then he put the sandwich down on its plate. Then he rose. Chewing, he walked leisurely to the door and opened it. Around a mouthful of food, he asked, “Who is it?”

“It’s me!” Mullaney bellowed, and stepped into the light streaming through the open door.

“Oh, hello there,” McReady said, “come in.” He backed away from the door. “It certainly is a brisk night, isn’t it?” he said. Mullaney entered the cottage. McReady closed the door behind him and walked back to the table. “Sit down,” he said. “Sit down. I was just having a little snack, helps the long night to pass.” He picked up the remainder of his sandwich and devoured it in two enormous gulps. Pouring more whiskey into his glass, he asked Mullaney, “A little schnapps?”

“Thank you,” Mullaney said.

The stonecutter rose and walked to a small cabinet set on the wall. Mullaney noticed that the wall was covered with posters advertising marble and granite. A calendar near the cabinet was printed with the words “Elegant... Exotic... Eternal,” and a photograph of what appeared to be the tomb of Tutankhamen. McReady came back to the table with a plastic water tumbler. He poured it almost full to the brim, raised his own glass, and said, “L’chaim.” The men drank.

McReady smacked his lips and said, “I’m very happy you stopped by to see me. I was wondering what happened to you.”

“I’ll bet you were,” Mullaney said.

“When I heard about the accident on the radio...”

“Was it on the radio?”

“Yes, a terrible accident.”

“Are they dead?”

“It would appear so.”

“I know who killed them,” Mullaney said.

“Ahhh.”

“A man named Kruger.”

“Ahhh.”

“And two people who work for him. Henry and George.”

“Ahhh.”

“Do you know them?” Mullaney asked.

“Have a little more schnapps,” McReady said, and poured the plastic water tumbler to the brim again. The men lifted their glasses. “L’chaim,” McReady said. They drank. The whiskey was good, and it was very cozy inside the cottage. Outside, the wind howled and the cemetery demons tossed restlessly. But within the cottage, there was the smell of cheese and good whiskey, the aroma of McReady’s tobacco as he lighted his pipe and exhaled a cloud of smoke. Mullaney felt himself relaxing. It had been a long day, and the possibility existed that it might be an even longer night, but for now there was whiskey and cheese and—

“Is there more cheese?” he asked.

“Why certainly,” McReady said, “are you hungry, you poor man?”

“I’m famished,” Mullaney said.

McReady rose and went to a small refrigerator, set under what appeared to be a door serving as a desk, one end of which was supported by the refrigerator, the other end by a green filing cabinet. He stooped, took from the refrigerator a wedge of cheese and a long salami, opened the filing cabinet to remove a knife, and came back to the table. Mullaney fell upon the feast without ceremony.

“I like to see a man eat,” McReady said.

“Yes,” Mullaney agreed, eating.

“Would you perhaps know what happened to the jacket?” McReady asked.

“Yes.”

“What happened to it?”

Mullaney swallowed more of the whiskey, washing down his food. “There was only The New York Times in it,” he said.

“Ahhh,” McReady said.

“Which I’m sure you knew, anyway,” Mullaney said.

“Ahhh?”

“Yes.”

“Paper scraps, do you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Cut into the size of bills?”

“Yes.”

“Sewn into the jacket?”

“Yes.”

“I knew nothing about it,” McReady said.

“You were the one who gave the jacket to me.”

“That’s true.”

“There was supposed to be half a million dollars in it,” Mullaney said.

“You’ve learned a lot since the accident,” McReady said, and his eyes narrowed. He had, until that moment, seemed like only a pleasant-looking old pipe smoker, his head partially bald, a fringe of white hair curling about each ear, his nose exhibiting the rosy tint of the habitual drinker, leisurely puffing on his pipe, puff, puff, and gulping his whiskey, a nice pleasant stonecutter of a man feeding a starving horseplayer and making pleasant chitchat in the night while the wind howled outside and the cemetery horrors moaned. Until he narrowed his eyes. When he narrowed his eyes, Mullaney suddenly wondered what a nice guy like McReady was doing in a place like this, cutting stones for corpses and substituting paper scraps for money. I’ll bet this whiskey has been poisoned, he thought, or drugged, but he took another swallow of it nonetheless.