The Bat (21 page)

“Oh my God!” Watkins whispered.

A sound emanated from the stage, as though someone was clapping. Then Harry saw. From the neckband of the beheaded Queen a spine protruded like a white worm, slowly nodding the head up and down. Blood was spurting from the gaping hole and splashing onto the stage.

“He knew we were coming!” Watkins whispered. “He
knew we were onto him! He even dressed up as one of his fucking rape victims!” He leaned into Harry’s face. “Shit, shit, shit, Holy!”

Harry didn’t know what was making him feel so queasy, whether it was the blood, the tasteless collocation of “fucking” with “rape victims,” or simply the man’s evil breath.

A red pool had formed which the executioner skidded in as he, apparently still in shock, ran forward to pick up the head. He fell to the floor with a bang, and two of the clowns ran onto the stage screaming at each other.

“Get the lights on!”

“Up with the curtain!”

Two of the other clowns ran on with the stage curtain and all four stood looking at one another and the high ceiling. A shout was heard from behind the stage, there was a flash from the lighting rig and a loud bang, and the theater descended into total darkness.

“This stinks, Holy. Come on!” Watkins grabbed Harry’s arm and made to move.

“Sit down,” Harry whispered, pulling him back into his seat.

“What?”

The lights came on, and the stage, which only a few seconds before had been a mess of blood, heads, guillotines, clowns and curtains, was empty, apart from the executioner and Otto Rechtnagel who stood at the edge of the stage with the Queen’s blonde head under his arm. They were met with a roar of wild cheering from the audience, to which they responded with deep bows.

“Well, bugger me,” said Watkins.

In the interval Watkins permitted himself a beer. “That number almost did it for me,” he said. “I’m still bloody trembling. Perhaps we should get the bastard now. This waiting is making me nervous.”

Harry shrugged. “Why? He’s not going anywhere, and he doesn’t suspect anything. Let’s stick to the plan.”

Watkins discreetly pressed the walkie-talkie to check he was in contact with Lebie, who, to be on the safe side, had stayed seated in the auditorium. The police car was already in position at the back door.

Harry had to concede that the finessing of the guillotine number was effective, but he was still pondering why Otto had exchanged Louis XVI for the blonde woman no one would have identified. Perhaps he had counted on Harry using the free tickets and being present. Was this his way of playing with the police? Harry knew that it was not unusual for serial killers to feel more and more confident as time passed without an arrest. Or was he begging for someone to stop him? And of course there was a third possibility—they had quite simply modified the trick.

A bell rang.

“Here we go again,” Watkins said. “I hope no one else will be killed this evening.”

*   *   *

Some way into the second act Otto appeared dressed as a hunter and crept across the stage with a pistol in his hand while peering up into trees that had been rolled in on wheels. From the foliage came some birdsong which Otto tried to imitate as he took aim at the branches. The crack of a gun was heard, a small puff of smoke rose and something black fell and hit the stage with a thump. The hunter ran over and to his surprise lifted up a black cat! Otto took a deep bow and left the stage to scattered applause.

“Didn’t understand that one,” Watkins whispered.

Harry might have appreciated the performance if he hadn’t been tense. However, as it was, he sat following his watch more than the events on the stage. Besides, several of the numbers contained political satire of a more local flavor and went over his head, but the audience greatly appreciated them. At the end, the music piped up, the lights came on and all the performers appeared onstage.

Harry and Watkins apologized to the row of people who had to stand to let them out, and hurried to the door at the side of the stage. As agreed, it was open and they went into a corridor that ran in a semicircle behind. At the furthest end they found the door with
Otto Rechtnagel, Clown
on it and waited. The music and the stamping from the auditorium were making the walls shake. Then came a brief crackle from Watkins’s walkie-talkie. He picked it up.

“Already?” he said. “The music’s still playing. Over.” His eyes widened. “What?! Repeat! Over.”

Harry knew something had gone wrong.

“Stay where you are and keep an eye on the stage door. Over and out!” Watkins slipped the walkie-talkie back into his inside pocket and took the gun from his shoulder holster.

“Lebie can’t see Rechtnagel onstage.”

“Perhaps he can’t recognize him. They use quite a bit of makeup when they—”

“The bugger’s not on the stage,” he repeated, tugging the dressing-room door handle, but it was locked. “Shit, Holy. I can feel this ain’t good. Fuck!”

The corridor was narrow, so Watkins pressed his back against the wall and kicked the lock on the door. After three kicks it gave with a shower of splinters. They lurched into an empty dressing room full of white steam. The floor was wet. The water and the steam were coming from a half-open door clearly leading to a bathroom. They stood on either side of the door; Harry had also taken out his gun, and was fumbling to find the safety catch.

“Rechtnagel!” Watkins shouted. “Rechtnagel!”

No answer.

“I don’t like this,” he snarled under his breath.

Harry had seen too many detective programs on TV to like it much, either. Running water and unanswered shouts had a tendency to presage less than edifying sights.

Watkins pointed to Harry with his forefinger and the shower with his thumb. Harry felt like signaling back with his middle finger, but acknowledged it was his turn now. He kicked open the door, took two paces into a baking hot steam bath and was saturated in a second. Before him he glimpsed a shower curtain. He pushed it aside with the muzzle of his gun.

Nothing.

He burned his arm as he switched off the water, and swore loudly in Norwegian. His shoes squelched as he maneuvered himself into a better position to see through the receding steam.

“Nothing here!” he yelled.

“Why’s there so much bloody water then?”

“There’s something blocking the drain. Just a moment.”

Harry put his hand into the water where he thought the blockage might be. He rummaged around, but then his fingers met something soft and smooth jammed in the drain.
He grabbed it and pulled it out. Nausea rose in his throat; he swallowed and struggled to breathe, but it felt as if the steam he was inhaling was suffocating him.

“What’s up?” Watkins asked. He was standing in the doorway and looking down at Harry crouching in the shower.

“I think I’ve lost a bet and I owe Otto Rechtnagel a hundred dollars,” Harry said quietly. “At least what’s left of him.”

Later Harry recalled the rest of what happened at St. George’s Theatre through a mist, as though the steam from Otto’s shower had spread and invaded everywhere: into the corridor where it blurred the outline of the caretaker trying to open the props-room door, in through the keyholes leaving a reddish filter over the sight that met them when they broke open the door and saw the guillotine dripping blood, into the auditory channels where it made the sound of screams strangely muted and fuzzy, as they were unable to prevent the other performers from entering and seeing Otto Rechtnagel scattered across the room.

The extremities had been slung into the corners like the arms and legs of a doll. The walls and floor were spattered with real, viscous blood that would coagulate and go black in no time at all. A limbless torso lay on the guillotine block, flesh and blood with wide-open eyes, a clown’s nose and mouth and cheeks smeared with lipstick.

The steam had adhered to Harry’s skin, mouth and palate. As if in slow motion he saw Lebie emerge from the mist, come over and whisper into his ear: “Andrew’s done a runner from the hospital.”

Someone must have lubricated the fan. It was whirring blithely without a sound.

“The only person the officers in the car saw coming out of the back door was this black executioner figure, is that right?”

McCormack had summoned everyone to his office.

Watkins nodded. “It is, sir. We’ll have to wait to hear what the performers and the caretakers saw—they’re being interviewed now. Either the murderer was in the auditorium and got in through the open stage door or he entered by the back door before the police car was in position.”

He sighed.

“The caretaker says the back door was locked during the performance, so in that case the murderer must have had a key, been let in or have sneaked in unnoticed with the performers and then hidden somewhere. Then he knocked on the dressing-room door after the cat number while Otto was getting ready for the finale. He probably drugged him—the boys in Forensics have found traces of diethyl ether—let’s hope so anyway, either in the dressing room or afterward in the props room. Whatever, the bloke must be a real cold-hearted bastard. After cutting him up he takes the severed
sexual organs, returns to the dressing room and turns on the taps so that anyone trying to get hold of him would hear water and think Otto was having a shower.”

McCormack cleared his throat. “What about this guillotine? There are simpler ways to kill a man …”

“Well, sir, I would guess the guillotine was a spontaneous idea. He could hardly have known it would be moved to the props room in the interval.”

“A very, very sick man,” Lebie said to his nails.

“What about the doors? They were all locked, weren’t they? How did they get into the props room?”

“I spoke to the caretaker,” Harry said. “As troupe leader Otto had a bunch of keys in his room. They’ve gone.”

“And what about this … devil’s costume?”

“It was in the box next to the guillotine, with the loose head and the wig, sir. The killer put it on after the murder and used it as a disguise. Also very cunning. And hardly likely to have been planned.”

McCormack rested his head in his hands.

“What was that, Yong?”

Yong had been on the computer while the others were talking.

“Let’s forget the devil in black clothes for a while,” he said. “Logic tells us that the killer’s someone in the troupe.”

Watkins snorted loudly.

“Let me finish, sir,” Yong said. “We’re looking for someone who knows the show, so he knew that Otto didn’t have any more to do after the cat number and therefore wouldn’t be needed onstage until the finale, about twenty minutes later. A member of the troupe wouldn’t have had to sneak in, either, which I doubt an outsider would have managed unobserved. Presumably at least one of you would have noticed if he’d used the door at the side of the stage.”

The others could only nod.

“Anyway, I’ve checked, and discovered that there are
three other members of the troupe who were in the Australian Travelling Show Park. Which means that this evening there are three other people who could have been at the crime scenes we discussed on the relevant dates. Maybe Otto was simply an innocent who knew too much? Let’s start looking where we have a chance of finding something. I suggest we kick off with the troupe instead of a phantom of the opera who is probably over the hills and far away already.”

Watkins shook his head. “We can’t ignore the obvious—an unknown person who leaves the scene of a crime wearing an outfit stored beside a murder weapon. It’s impossible for him
not
to have anything to do with the murder.”

Harry agreed. “I think we can forget the other actors in the troupe. First of all, nothing’s changed the fact that Otto may have raped and killed all the girls. There can be a whole host of reasons for someone wanting to murder a serial killer. The individual may be involved in some way, for example. Perhaps he knew Otto was going to be arrested by the police and didn’t want to risk a confession and being dragged down in its wake. Second, it’s not certain the murderer knew in advance how much time he had—he may have forced Otto to tell him when he would be onstage again. And third, listen to your feelings!” He closed his eyes. “You can feel it, can’t you? The guy in the bat costume is our man. Narahdarn!”

“What?” said Watkins.

McCormack chuckled. “Seems as if our Norwegian friend has stepped into the void left by our very own Detective Kensington,” he said.

“Narahdarn,” Yong repeated. “The Aboriginal symbol of death, the bat.”

“There’s something else that worries me,” McCormack continued. “The bloke can slip out the rear door unnoticed and be ten steps away from the busiest streets in Sydney where he can be sure to disappear in seconds. Yet he takes
the time to put on a costume which is bound to attract attention. But which also means we have no description of him. You almost get the feeling he knew the police car was there to keep an eye on the door. And, if so, how is that possible?”

Silence.

“How’s Kensington doing in hospital, by the way?” McCormack took out a lozenge and started sucking.

The room was silent. The fan was blowing noiselessly.

“He’s not there anymore,” Lebie said at length.

“Crikey, that was a short convalescence!” McCormack said. “Well, never mind, we need all available units as quickly as possible now because I can tell you this: chopped-up clowns create bigger headlines than raped girls. And as I’ve told you before, boys, those who think we don’t need to give a stuff about the newspapers are mistaken. Newspapers have got chiefs of police dismissed and appointed before in this country. So unless you want me thrown out on my ear you know what has to be done. But go home and sleep first. Yes, Harry?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“OK. G’night.”

Things were different. The curtains in the hotel weren’t drawn, and in the glow of the neon lights in King’s Cross Birgitta undressed in front of him.

He lay in bed as she stood in the middle of the room dropping garment after garment, all the while holding his gaze with a serious, almost sorrowful expression. Birgitta was long-legged, slim and as white as snow in the pale light. From the half-open window could be heard the sounds of an intense nightlife—cars, motorbikes, gambling machines playing barrel-organ music and pulsating disco music. And beneath all this—like human crickets—the sound of loud conversations, indignant screams and boisterous laughter.