Evan Hunter - A Horse’s Head

“Your name, sir?” the judge asked.

“Arthur Purcell, your Honor,” the voice from the rear of the courtroom said.

Mullaney turned and saw Purcell — a blond, pleasant-looking man of about thirty-three, wearing a grey suit, white shirt and black tie — walking toward the front of the courtroom. The judge told him to settle things with the bailiff, and Purcell immediately went to the right-hand side of the courtroom where someone, presumably the bailiff, was sitting behind a desk covered with rubber stamps and inked pads, and officially banging away at all the documents spread before him. Mullaney saw Purcell reaching into his back pants pocket for a wallet, and then the judge cleared his throat and Mullaney turned toward the bench again. The judge informed him that he was expected to appear in court on May seventeenth, and that if he did not appear on that date, the bail would be forfeited and a warrant issued for his arrest. He asked Mullaney whether or not he understood that. Mullaney said that he understood it completely. Very well, the judge said, you are released on five hundred dollars bail until the seventeenth of May, try to stay out of trouble until then. Mullaney assured the judge that he would try very hard to stay out of trouble, meanwhile thinking of the jacket in the library and of how many tickets on Jawbone he could buy and of how he would spend the money plus all of his winnings on a life of romantic adventure in Monaco, Rio de Janeiro or perhaps even Jakarta. Purcell fell into step beside him as he walked toward the leather-padded doors at the rear of the courtroom.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Purcell,” Mullaney said. “I certainly appreciate your generosity and kindness.”

“Don’t thank me, ” Purcell said, and held the door open for Mullaney to precede him into the marble corridor.

“Who should I thank?” Mullaney asked, and immediately saw K standing by the corridor window.

K no longer wore his torn and tattered rags of the night before. Instead, he was dressed in a freshly pressed blue suit. He looked very grim, if extremely neat, the small gold K still holding his tie in place. He beckoned to Mullaney, and Mullaney figured there was no sense arguing with him now, especially since Purcell had a rather large and unsightly bulge on the left-hand side of his coat, which could not have been caused by his wallet because Mullaney remembered that he kept his wallet in the back pocket of his trousers. He also remembered that K had put a hole in his jasmine shirt the night before (something for which he would never entirely forgive him). Someone — probably Feinstein — had once taught him never to argue with gentlemen who were heeled, so he decided to chat instead and desperately searched for an opening conversational gambit that might possibly eradicate the very grim look K — and now even Purcell — was wearing.

“I heard you were dead,” Mullaney said at last.

“No, I am alive,” K assured him.

“I see that.”

“Yes.”

“That’s a very nice suit.”

“Thank you. It was made for me by the same person who tailored your burial garments.”

“Oh,” Mullaney said.

“Yes. Which brings up a small matter...”

“You weren’t dressed nearly as well last night,” Mullaney said.

“That’s because I was in an automobile accident and then was forced to make my way through the brambles and bushes lining the parkway in order to avoid getting killed by the people who had engineered the accident.”

“I see,” Mullaney said.

“Yes. Some people by the name of Adolph Kruger and his fellows, with whom I understand you have become acquainted.”

“I didn’t know his name was Adolph,” Mullaney said.

“Well, there is oft ignorance afoot,” K quoted, “but it neither dims nor extinguishes the true light.”

“I’m sure,” Mullaney said.

“About the jacket...”

“But on the other hand...”

“... Roger McReady tells me that you know where the jacket is, and that...”

“... on the other hand, there is oft true light afoot, but it neither dims nor extinguishes the ignorance.”

“On the other hand,” K said, “people have oft had their heads broken for not listening to reason and answering questions that have been put to them.”

“What was the question?” Mullaney asked.

“The question was: Where’s the jacket?”

Mullaney suddenly remembered that he was inside a courthouse (a sign over the entrance doors advised him that this was PART 1A, and a second sign on a metal stand to the left of the doors read JUDGE LUTHER HORTON PRESIDING) and further remembered that this was a criminal courthouse. It was then that he noticed how many policemen of every stripe were swarming all over this second-floor corridor, and wondered whether K or Purcell would risk shooting at him with so many uniformed minions of the law abounding, not to mention untold invisible plainclothesmen. How could they risk shooting, how could they even risk giving chase?

“Why should I tell you where the jacket is?” Mullaney asked, stalling while he made his decision. He didn’t feel like running again (he had been doing so goddamn much running lately), but neither did he feel like getting shot at again, or even hit on the head again.

“You should tell us where the jacket is,” K said logically and smoothly and calmly, “because if you do, I will induce Mr. McReady to drop the criminal charges against you, which charges — as you may or may not know — could lead to at least ten years in a state penitentiary.”

“Yes, I know that,” Mullaney said, thinking furiously. “But what’s so important about that jacket?”

“Let us say it has sentimental value,” K said.

“Let us say bullshit,” Mullaney said.

“Mr. Mullaney,” K said, “the possibility also exists that we will kill you if you do not tell us where the jacket is. Have you weighed that possibility?”

“Yes,” Mullaney said, thinking Why, I don’t have to run at all! All I have to do is turn swiftly and economically and begin walking toward the elevator bank in the middle of the corridor. “I have weighed the possibility,” he said, “and I’ve decided you can’t lay a finger on me.”

He smiled politely, and would have tipped his hat if he were wearing one. Then he turned swiftly on his heel and began walking as fast as he could toward the elevators. Behind him, K and Purcell held a hurried, whispered consultation, and then immediately began walking after him, as fast as they could without attracting the attention of any of the corridor policemen. Mullaney reached the elevator bank just as the doors on one of the cars were closing. He walked in swiftly, caught a quick glimpse of K and Purcell just before the doors closed, heard another elevator operator in another car shout “Down!” and realized they would not be very far behind him when he reached the street floor. His heart was pounding, and his hands were sweating, but he stood very calmly in the midst of lawyers and clients and policemen and bailiffs and judges while the car dropped soundlessly in its shaft. Ignoring the several ladies present, he stepped out of the car before them the moment it stopped, and walked rapidly toward the entrance doors and the street. He did not look back at the building until he had reached the corner of Leonard Street, and then he turned and saw K and Purcell bounding down the steps. The horses are on the track , Mullaney thought, trying to sound like Freddie Capossela in his mind, It is now post time. He took a deep breath, said aloud, “They’re off!” and began running.

It was a nice day for a run.

If a fellow has to run, Mullaney thought, he certainly couldn’t wish for a nicer day than this one. He could remember fishing for blue crabs one night off a Fire Island dock, Irene luring the crabs in with a flashlight and he scooping them up into a net before it began raining. They had run that night because the rain was suddenly upon them in torrents and they were positive they could be drowned just standing still on the dock. The house they had rented for the month of August was at the far end of the boardwalk, adjacent to Saltaire, and they were both barefoot and afraid they would pick up wood splinters, neither of them dressed for the sudden summer storm, there had been stars and a moon in the sky when they’d begun their solitary crabbing. But they ran nonetheless into the pelting rain and were drenched within minutes. And then, suddenly, there was no point in running any longer, they were both as wet as they ever would be. So they said the hell with it, and joined hands and idly ambled up the boardwalk, laughing and singing, and waking at least two irate neighbors who shouted for quiet, thereby waking at least two more. They were wet to the marrow when they finally reached the house, shivering on the front porch while Mullaney tried to extricate the key from the sodden pocket of his dungaree trousers. They each drank a shot of medicinal brandy, and Mullaney lighted a fire in the old fireplace, filling the house with smoke that sent them out laughing into the rain again.