The Dark Descends (20 page)

Joyce went to the door, took hold of the knob with the skirt of her robe, glanced back over her shoulder. A last look at poor Charlotte. Poor, poor Charlotte. From this angle, the pearly glint of the new front teeth was conspicuous. Window dressing. Useless adornment for someone with nowhere to go.

"It's rough, Charlotte, but you know what they say. They say if you inadvertently drive your car over something and it moans, back up. Otherwise you find yourself saddled with an incubus and you never get out from under."

...suddenly stopped and I heard somebody going up to her floor. Then there was a bit of tramping around upstairs and then it got quiet. I dozed off, but a little later I was roused by the footsteps tearing down the stairs. How much later I couldn't say. Perhaps a few minutes, perhaps half an hour— I honestly don't know. I wasn't fully awake, and I didn't think to look at the clock. I fell asleep again right away. I was out of the house most of the next day, so I didn't have cause to wonder about her till the evening, and then I began to feel a little uneasy because it was strange not to hear her moving around up there, to say nothing of that ghastly radio. I remembered what had happened to her before—I could hardly have forgotten—and around ten-thirty I went up and knocked on her door. There was no answer. She hadn't been out a single evening that I know of since coming back from the hospital, and I decided it would be wisest to call the police.

Signature:..............

Date:.....................

...

Joyce started to sign her name, hesitated, then put down the pen and began re-reading the statement? Her face was drawn and pale, the flesh slightly puckered as though inroads had been made by some internal parasite, and there were dark blotches around her eyes. She sat on the visitor's side of a massive oak desk, opposite a gaunt red-haired man with penetrating eyes that contemplated her steadily, patiently. They were both smoking, she with quick, nervous puffs, he with long and leisurely inhalations. When she crushed out her cigarette, he was instantly on the alert. She reached up to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear and went on reading. The alert subsided.

Moments passed. The red-haired man lit a fresh cigarette from the stub of the old one. His gaze moved from Joyce to the blank white wall behind her, but returned to her at once when she picked up the pen. Again, on the verge of signing her name, she hesitated.

"Something you want to change, Mrs. Chandler?" The man's voice was low-pitched and slightly grating.

"No, I don't think so. It's accurate. Exactly what I said." Joyce looked up with a rueful smile. "The thing is, I sound almost like a monster. Heartless. Now that I see my sentiments about her set down in black and white, I feel I should have tried to cover them up. Out of decency. Still, how could I have? I'm sure you found enough noise-making paraphernalia in her apartment to stock a sound effects library. If I'd failed to mention how she was bombarding me, I'm sure you would have wondered about it."

"Very likely. It's always better to level with us. When people act cagey, we tend to think they have something to hide, and that isn't the case with you, is it?"

"Certainly not. As I've told you, the only reason I can think of for her persecution of me is that she was venting her hostility against the world at large on the nearest target." Joyce signed her name and put down the pen. "Is that all?"

"For you it is. For us"—he shrugged—"far from it. We can't even be sure what really happened. The obvious hypothesis is that the guy who beat her up came back to finish what he started, but we have a few reservations about buying that. There are things about the mise-en-scène that bother us. Also"—he offered a cigarette—"guys who get their kicks by bashing women around with chains don't usually go in for techniques as quick and clean as severing carotids with razor blades."

Joyce refused the cigarette with a shake of her head and clasped her hands on the edge of the desk. "Are you suggesting that there were two different people who—who did things to her? It seems so hard to believe. Like lightning striking twice."

"Often it does. When somebody starts leading the kind of life she was leading, it's an open invitation to disaster. As to that, I'm curious about your reaction to having the building suddenly transformed into Times Square. You said that the traffic disturbed you less than her radio, but—"

"One of the many things in the statement that make me sound like a monster." Dryly.

"No, like a fairly typical New Yorker. All the same, Mrs. Chandler, a change in the life style as radical as hers doesn't happen every day. Didn't it start you wondering?"

"Naturally. It also shocked me, I'll admit. But not for long. One doesn't get far past adolescence without finding out that being shocked by the things people do is a waste of time and energy."

"Fair enough." Amusement glinted in his eyes. Fleetingly. "You know, there's a funny angle to that change. She was launched on her new career in slam-bang style. Cards spelling it all out were left in public places all over the city. We found that out when we were investigating the beating. She clammed up about the advertising campaign. Denied knowing anything about those cards."

"Did she?" Joyce's clasped hands were white at the knuckles.

"Yes. Understandable, under the circumstances, but there's another possibility, too. Could be somebody else launched her. Somebody who wanted to annoy her and distributed the cards as a nasty practical joke and watched the whole thing go out of control. If that's the way it happened, that person must be feeling guilty as hell right now."

"If there is such a person." Joyce unclasped her hands and picked up her purse.

"Only a hypothesis, naturally. The point I want to make is that if such a person exists, he—or she—shouldn't be feeling guilty. Nobody forced Miss Bancroft into anything, and the only one with cause to feel guilty is the murderer. Is there something you'd like to tell me, Mrs. Chandler?"

"No. Should there be?"

The red-haired man gave her face a long scrutiny, then got up from his chair, went to the door, opened it wide. "Okay, Mrs. Chandler, that's it. Thanks for your co-operation." Joyce rose and moved to the door with the exaggerated slowness of someone repressing a desire to do a bolt. As she passed in front of the man, under the intensity of his gaze, she gave him a faint, apologetic smile. "It's such a relief to know that it's over. Really and truly over."

"I can believe that. I'm sorry we had to put you through such a grilling. Goodbye, Mrs. Chandler. Look after yourself."

The man stood in the doorway, watching Joyce walk down the corridor until she turned a corner and was lost to view. He closed the door and strode across the room to the window.

In a moment, the door opened. "Did you pull an admission out of her?"

"Didn't seem necessary. There's no doubt in my mind that she's responsible for circulating the cards. When I brought them up, she could hardly hold herself together. If I'd leaned on her a little it would all have come pouring out, but what the hell. Why bother?"

"Well, it would make things tidy for the records."

"Stuff the records. With Jack the Ripper to worry about, why waste time compiling a dossier on a poor wretch who's eating her heart out with guilt?" The red-haired man took a step closer to the window. "There she goes, scurrying across the street as though all the demons of hell were after her."

...

"Your pad's a drag. A place for everything and everything in its place. Reminds me of a ship's cabin. A ship on the way to nowhere. Gives you the feeling that when you tuck in for the night you ought to leave your brains in one comer and your balls in another. But the bathroom's okay, I have to admit." The young man reclining in the bathtub concluded his critique with an airy wave of his hand.

Joyce said nothing. Perched on the toilet seat with one foot drawn up in front of her, she appeared indifferent to everything except the task of clipping her toenails.

The young man wriggled in the water, showing his pleasure as a child might. "Man, what a treat. A real bath. You know, if it hadn't been for this, I wouldn't be here. I don't go home with broads as a rule. I like my independence."

"You have a fascinating life style, Sunshine." Joyce put her foot down on the floor and yawned flagrantly. "Sometime you'll have to tell me how it evolved. I'm dying to know."

"Quit coming on like a dominating female, doll, or else you can find yourself another stud."

"Now, now, you shouldn't take things to heart so. It makes for too much wear and tear on the nervous system." Joyce stood up, turned her back to the tub, and began removing her clothes.

"No point in trying to hide the boobs, doll." Relaxed, with his hands locked behind his head and his shaggy black beard just clearing the water, he looked the picture of animal content. "I remember they're not much."

"
Chacun
à
son go
û
t.
" Her disrobing was mechanical, without coquetry. "Maybe I could start doing exercises."

He guffawed and, at the instant she bent over to pull down her panties, scooped up a handful of water and flung it at her.

The spray struck her buttocks. She gasped, took an involuntary kangaroo leap. "Idiot!"

He guffawed again. "The ass is okay, I have to admit. The proportions aren't bad either."

"A line of patter like that must quicken a lot of heartbeats." She wrapped her crimson robe around her and turned to face him.

"It seems to me you're a lot skinnier than I remember. Has that photographer you work for been keeping you hopping?"

"I don't work for a photographer. I'm a proofreader. For a legal firm on Wall Street."

"You don't say. I could have sworn you were the chick who has that boring job arranging displays for the camera? Not that yours doesn't sound pretty boring, too."

"It is." She came over to the tub and sat down on the rim. "It's something a trained robot could probably do better than I can. But there's a lot to be said for going through the same mechanical motions day after day, knowing that when the bell rings you sit down or get up or do whatever it is you're supposed to do."

"Aw, come off it. You can't possibly enjoy a job that makes you feel like Pavlov's dog."

"I didn't say I enjoy it. But it fills the void and keeps me from thinking, so everything's fine."

"It doesn't sound so fine to me."

"I didn't ask for your opinion!"

"Now who's taking things to heart?"

"Touché, Sunshine." She gave him a wintry smile that failed to get as far as her eyes. "Sorry I snapped. I've been a bit jumpy lately, since"—she hesitated—"since the murder. There was a murder in the building. Upstairs. I—I heard the murderer leave."

"And you've been having nightmares about it ever since, I bet. Sad, doll, sad. On the other hand, maybe not so sad. Maybe just plain nothing. What building doesn't have its tiny drama?"

"Well put, Sunshine. You're a real philosopher, aren't you?" She stretched out a hated and tugged at his beard. "A real, honest-to-God philosopher."

"Cut the comedy." He grasped her wrist. Hard. "Instead of coming on like Queen Shit, let's have a little, action. He pulled her hand into the water and down on his penis. “Do your stuff, cunt."

"Later." She wrenched her hand away, reached up to the shelf over his head for a washcloth, waved it in front of his eyes. "First I'm going to give you a nice, thorough scrubbing. The kind Mommy used to give you on Saturday nights."

"Like hell you are." With a ferocious thrashing, he raised himself to a sitting position.

Joyce took hold of his hair and forced him down again. "Don't be bashful, Sunshine. You're in for it, so just lie there and enjoy the fun. It's quirky of me, I know, but I like my studs clean."

"Queen Shit," he muttered. But he closed his eyes and let his body go slack.

Joyce wet and soaped the cloth, drew his limp arm onto her lap. Vigorous scrubbing turned a large area of skin above the wrist white, then red. She worked her way up the forearm deftly, efficiently. Near the elbow the skin was scaly, with black in the creases, and she began to scrub harder. Harder and harder and harder and—

"Hey, doll, you'll draw blood in a minute."

With a moan, Joyce flung his arm off her lap.

"What's the commotion? On that robe it wouldn't even show."

Her hip hurt. Her shoulder hurt. Everything hurt. No wonder, the way she was jammed against the wall. But she didn't dare ease the pressure, because the room might start moving again. She watched the refrigerator door. It was still now. A moment ago it had been swaying from side to side. Earthquake? Underground atomic blast? Whatever it was, it seemed to be over. Thank God.

Cautiously she let her body relax, drew a fraction of an inch away from the wall, and at once the refrigerator door began to move again, the stainless steel handle dipping and weaving like a skiff caught in a gale. No, it wasn't over. Pressing her hip and shoulder against the wall, she closed her eyes. It. didn't help. Now things were moving inside her head. Very likely that was where the motion had been the whole time. No earthquake. No atomic test. Just an unstable head.

She reared up on her heels and pivoted ninety degrees. Now her back was against the wall. More support. Less pain. The motion inside her head came to a stop. She opened her eyes. The room was still. Stable. Secure. Just as always.

In a hell of a state, though. Dust everywhere. Not much, just enough to show how she'd been letting things go. The bed wasn't even made. Slatternly. Downright sluttish. The Venetian blinds were rolled all the way up and sunlight was pouring in. What on earth had possessed her to let all that sunlight in? Perhaps she had been about to start cleaning when it hit her, whatever it was. Perhaps. The idea sounded plausible enough, but somehow she couldn't believe in it.

What a fix to be in—literally with her back to the wall. It seemed as though she had been like this for a long time. How long exactly? Minutes? Hours? No way of knowing. The alarm clock was lying on its face. He had turned it over, instead of getting up when she told him to. That had made her furious, good and furious. She had laced into him like a fishwife, practically pulling him out of bed by the hair. After that, he had taken to his heels. P.D.Q.