Evan Hunter - A Horse’s Head

“I don’t believe it,” Cohen said.

“It’s true,” Solomon said, nodding.

“I don’t believe it neither,” Horowitz said.

“I believe it,” Mullaney said fervently.

“You do?” Solomon asked, surprised.

“Yes. The exact same thing happened to my friend Feinstein.”

“The exact same thing?” Solomon asked, astonished.

“Yes. Well no, not the exact same thing. Actually, it happened in Las Vegas, outside the Sands, while Eddie Fisher was singing inside. But yes, Feinstein had been gambling all night, and he did get chased into the street, and he was struck by lightning. Though later, of course, there was speculation about what had really killed him, it being said a blackjack dealer had shot him with a .45 automatic. I, personally, have always believed he was struck by lightning, though witnesses claim Feinstein had been praying aloud for aces all night long, which could have caused the dealer to go berserk, I suppose, especially if he had no sense of humor or was not as pious a man as Feinstein.”

“Isadore Feinstein from Washington Heights?”

“No, Abraham Feinstein from the Grand Concourse.”

“I don’t think I know him,” Solomon said, and suddenly turned toward the stairwell.

The surprise was mutual and immediate, preceded only by the creaking of a stair tread, the single harbinger that caused Solomon to turn. The stairwell was behind the rear wall of the synagogue, and K and Purcell came around that wall cautiously, revolvers drawn, rather like bad imitations of television detectives raiding a numbers bank. Mullaney saw them at exactly the same time that they saw him, and all three men let out squeaks of surprise and almost leapt into the air, Mullaney in fear that he would be shot in the next instant, K and Purcell in delight at having found their quarry at last.

“There he is!” Purcell shouted — needlessly, Mullaney thought, since it was plain to see that there he was, and even plainer to see that there was no way out of this underground room save for the staircase which e ras now so effectively blocked.

Goldman, taking one look at the pistols in their hands, shouted, “Pogrom!” and all the other old men, cued by Goldman, remembering stories of atrocities in Russian and Polish villages, perhaps even remembering scenes from their own childhoods, began running around the room shouting, “Pogrom, pogrom!” coming between Mullaney and his two pursuers, who still stood near the stairwell uncertainly, the pistols ready in their hands, but not wanting to shoot a bunch of old men who were racing around the room holding their hands to their heads and their ears and shouting, “Pogrom, pogrom!” for the whole neighborhood to hear. Mullaney, who didn’t want anyone to get shot either, least of all himself, picked up one of the folding chairs and threw it at Purcell, missing, he had never been very good at hitting people with folding chairs. The old men stopped running in that moment, perhaps because they realized Mullaney was the intended victim and not themselves, a realization that provided immunity and therefore power, perhaps because they remembered all at once that it did no good to run, it was more important to stand and fight even if the victim was only a stranger who had enabled you to pray publicly on the sabbath. Solomon seized the lighted candelabra from the altar, and with a bloodcurdling shriek worthy of an Irgun warrior, rushed K and struck him on the arm, sending the gun skittering across the floor, and also sending candles flying in every direction — oh my God, Mullaney thought, we’re going to have a fire here.

“Run, Melinsky!” Solomon shouted. “Flee!”

But Mullaney could not run, would not run while candles were burning on the wooden floor. He began stamping them out, and saw that Purcell had turned from the stairway to level his gun at Solomon, who was bending over the fallen K now, ready to strike another blow, this time on the head perhaps. Cohen veiled, “Solomon, look out!” and then seized a whole handful of talliths from the rack and threw them over Purcell’s head, the shawls covering him as effectively as a net. Mullaney kept stamping on the candles. A pistol shot rang out, shattering the stained-glass window, Purcell firing blindly from beneath his entangling silk shawls.

“We’ve got the situation!” Solomon shouted. “Flee, Melinsky!”

“Thank you!” Mullaney said, or perhaps only thought, and fled.

He fled into a city washed clean by the rain, her streets black and shining and smelling sweet and fresh, the sun poking through the clouds now like a religious miracle, great radiating spikes of dazzling light piercing the overhead gloom, reflecting in curbside puddles. A barefooted little boy stamped his feet in the water and shrieked in glee as Mullaney ran past him, turning left onto First Avenue, running uptown because uptown was where the library was.

The cessation of the storm had summoned everyone outdoors to sit or stroll. There was a holiday mood on First Avenue, partially because it was the sabbath and partially because this was the dirtiest city in the world and everyone was delighted that a rainstorm had carried away some of its soot and grime. Besides, it was spring, and city rain never succeeds the way it does in the spring, when it carries the aroma of unseen green clear across the canyons from Central Park, wafting gently on each crisp new breeze, cool and excruciatingly sweet. You can breathe in New York in the spring, Mullaney thought, you can suck great gobs of air into your lungs, especially after it rains. The clouds were scattering now, the sun was breaking through completely, putting the grey to rout, turning the streets to glittering obsidian. He ran not because he thought he was being chased, but only because he was beginning to enjoy running, feeling very much the way Jean Paul Belmondo must have felt on the Champs Elysees. In fact, when he spotted an old lady in a flowered housedress standing on the comer, holding a shopping bag, he ran up to her and threw the hem of her housedress clear up over her pink bloomers, “Oh, dear!” the lady said, and stared after him in wonder as he raced on past. The jacket was waiting for him at the library. The secret was nestling on the floor of that dusty vault where he had made love to Merilee, the secret to untold wealth, some of which he would lay on Jawbones nose, oh what a lucky man I am, he thought, oh what a wonderfully lucky fellow to be running in this springtime city like Jesse Owens or Gunder Hägg.

But, being thirty-nine and very close to forty, he soon tired of all this springtime frivolity and, out of breath, panting hard, decided he had best try to rustle up twenty cents for a subway token that would take him to the library before he dropped dead of a heart attack right here on this lovely springtime street. He did not want to beg because it didn’t seem fitting for someone as nicely dressed as he was to go around begging on First Avenue; that would hardly seem proper for someone wearing clothes that had belonged to a person ten times the man he was, or so Melanie had claimed, and he had no reason to doubt her word. And, as much as he detested the idea of stealing, he justified the plan that sprang full-blown into his head by telling himself that as soon as he made his killing he would come back and return the money he was about to pilfer — well, not pilfer, but certainly con out of an unsuspecting sucker.

He carefully eased the avenue, picking out the most crowded luncheonette he could find, and taking a seat at the farthest end of the counter, away from the cash register. He ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and a Coke, figuring he might just as well eat while he was at it, being very hungry. He ate leisurely and unobtrusively, keeping his head bent most of the time, avoiding the waitress’s eye, and ascertaining what he had learned from his scrutiny of the place through the plate-glass window: that the cashier was a rather portly old gentleman wearing glasses and reading a copy of Sports Illustrated. When he finished his meal, he picked up the check the waitress had given him, walked toward the cashier, and then directly past the cashier and into the telephone booth. He lifted the receiver from the hook, pretended to deposit a dime, dialed Irene’s number because it was the first number that came to mind, and then carried on an imaginary conversation with her while watching the cashier.