Evan Hunter - A Horse’s Head

“Suppose his uncle really is a judge?” O’Brien said.

“His uncle is not a judge,” K said.

“He looks as if his uncle could be a judge or at least an alderman.”

“That’s right,” Mullaney said.

“In fact, how do we know he himself isn’t a judge or an alderman or an off-duty detective?”

“That’s right,” Mullaney said, “how do you know?”

“Do you realize what kind of trouble we’ll be in if we’ve accidentally picked up somebody important?”

“Yes, consider that,” Mullaney said.

K considered it, studying Mullaney thoughtfully. At last, he said, “He is nobody important.”

“I beg your pardon,” Mullaney said, offended.

“In any case,” O’Brien said, “he’s too tall.”

“For the coffin?” Gouda asked, and Mullaney shuddered again.

“No, for the suit.”

“We can alter the suit.”

“I’m a very difficult person to fit,” Mullaney said. “Gentlemen, seriously, I don’t want you to go to any trouble on my part. If the suit won’t fit me...”

“It’ll fit him,” K said in his very low voice.

“Hell split all the seams.”

“It’s only until he gets to Rome.”

“You shouldn’t have let the original corpse get away,” O’Brien said to Gouda. “The suit was measured to order for him.”

“He jumped out of the car,” Gouda said, and spread his hands helplessly. “Could I chase him down Fourteenth Street? With a plane ready to take off?” He shrugged. “We grabbed the first person we saw.” He appraised Mullaney, and then said, “Besides, I think he’ll make a fine corpse.”

“You could have picked someone shorter,” O’Brien said petulantly.

“There were no short people on Fourteenth Street,” Gouda said. “I would like some schnapps, after all.”

“There’s no time for schnapps,” K said.

“That’s right,” Gouda instantly agreed, “there’s no time for schnapps. Where’s the suit, O’Brien?”

“Get the suit,” O’Brien said to the man who had offered the schnapps. The man obediently went into the other room, but over his shoulder he called, “It won’t fit.”

The other men sat waiting for him to come back. The bald-headed driver was cleaning his fingernails with a long knife, What a dreadful stereotype, Mullaney thought. “What’s your name?” he asked him.

“Peter,” the driver answered, without looking up from his nails.

“Pleased to meet you.”

The driver nodded as though he felt it wasteful to exchange courtesies with someone who would soon be dead.

“Listen,” Mullaney said to K, “I really would not like to become a corpse.”

“You have no choice,” K said. “We have no choice, therefore you have no choice.” It sounded very logical. Mullaney admired the logic but not the sentiment.

“Still,” he said, “I’m only thirty-seven years old,” lying by two years. Almost three years.

“Some people get hit by automobiles when they’re only little kids,” Peter said, still cleaning his nails. “Think of them”

“I sympathize with them,” Mullaney said, “but I myself had hoped to live to a ripe old age.”

“Hopes are dainty things ofttimes shattered,” K said, as if he were quoting from something, Mullaney couldn’t imagine what.

The stonecutter came back into the room with a black suit on a hanger. “I left the shirt,” he said. “The shirt would definitely not fit him. What size shirt do you wear?” he asked Mullaney.

“Fifteen,” Mullaney said. “Five sleeve.”

“He can wear his own shirt,” K said.

“I’d like to wear my own suit, too,” Mullaney said, “if that’s all right with you.”

“That is not all right with us,” K said.

“In fact,” Mullaney went on, “I’d like to go home right now, or better still, I’d like to go to Aqueduct. If you gentlemen are interested, I have a very hot tip on a horse called...”

“He’ll wear his own shirt,” K said.

“A yellow shirt?” O’Brien asked, offended.

“It’s not yellow,” K said. “What color is that shirt?” he asked Mullaney.

“Jasmine.”

“It’s jasmine,” K said.

“It looks yellow.”

“No, it’s jasmine,” Mullaney said.

“Put on the suit,” K advised.

“Gentlemen...”

“Put it on,” Gouda said, and made a faintly menacing gesture with the Luger.

Mullaney accepted the suit from O’Brien. “Where shall I change?” he asked.

“Here,” Gouda said.

He hoped he was wearing clean underwear; his mother had always cautioned him about wearing clean underwear and carrying a clean handkerchief. He took off his pants, feeling the sharpness of the keen April wind that swept over the marble stones in the courtyard and seeped through the crack under the door.

“Hes got polka-dot undershorts,” Peter said, and made his short laughlike sound. “A corpse with polka-dot undershorts, that’s a hot one.”

The pants were too short and too tight. Mullaney could not button them at the waist.

“Just zip them up as far as they’ll go,” K said, “that’ll be fine.”

“They’ll fall down,” Mullaney said, transferring his twenty-cent fortune from his own pants to the ones he was now wearing.

“You’ll be lying in a coffin, they won’t fall down,” O’Brien said, and handed him the suit jacket.

The jacket was made of the same fine black cloth as the trousers, but was lined and therefore substantially heavier. There were three thick black buttons on the front, each about the size of a penny, and four smaller black buttons on each sleeve. The buttons resembled mushroom caps, though not rounded, their tops and edges faceted instead, a very fancy jacket indeed, if a trifle too tight. He pulled it closed across his chest and belly, and then forced the middle button through its corresponding buttonhole. The shoulders were far too narrow, the armholes pinched, he let out his breath and said, “It’s too tight.”

“Perfect,” K said.

“What’s the lining made of?” Mullaney asked. “It rustles.”

“It’s silk,” O’Brien said, and glanced at K.

“It makes a nice whispering rustle,” Mullaney said.

“Those arc angels’ wings,” Peter said, and again gave his imitation of a laugh. The other men laughed with him — all but Gouda, who, it seemed to Mullaney, had suddenly become very nervous and pale.

“Well,” Gouda said, “let’s get on with it, there isn’t much time.”

“Put him in the coffin,” K said.

“Look,” Mullaney protested, “I’m a married man,” which was not exactly the truth, since he had been divorced a year ago.

“We will send your wife a floral wreath,” Gouda said.

“I have two children.” This was an absolute lie. He and Irene had never had any children at all.

“That’s unfortunate,” K said. “But ofttimes even little babes must untowardly suffer,” again making it sound like a quote which Mullaney did not recognize.

“I’m a respected professor at City College,” Mullaney said, which was also pretty close to the truth since he used to be an encyclopedia salesman. “I can assure you I’ll be sorely missed.”

“You won’t be missed at all,” Gouda said, which made no sense.

Somebody hit him on the back of the head, Peter he supposed, the dirty rat.

The stench was definitely chloroform.

His father had lied to him at the age of six, telling him he was going to get lots of ice cream after the tonsil operation, but neglecting to mention that chloroform was the vilest-smelling of anesthetics. He would never forget that odor, and there were definitely traces of it in the coffin now. He supposed, of course, that he should be grateful he was alive, if indeed he was alive. He certainly felt alive. He seemed to be breathing, albeit with difficulty because of the tight pants and jacket; he noticed that someone had left the coffin lid open perhaps an inch or so, very thoughtful because otherwise he might have suffocated. But then, he had known they weren’t going to kill him because it would have been senseless and also a trifle wasteful to knock a man out if you were going to kill him. In the two seconds it took for everything to go black (everything actually went a sort of mauve, to be honest) he remembered realizing with soaring joy that they were not going to kill him, and then he fell to the floor.