A Killer is Loose (12 page)

“It’s not getting any louder, Steve,” he said.

“You’re right. Let’s drop it.”

“No, pal. I got to find out where it’s coming from.”

He brushed my arm, and we went on walking slowly down the lawns fronting these big homes. I wished the piano would stop. If it stopped now, he wouldn’t know where to go and we could forget it.

“Listen,” he said.

We stood still and listened some more. It was louder now, all right.

“Come on.”

“All right.” I was tired. We still stank from the mucky bottom of that bayou. The muck was in my hair, drying a little now, and our clothes were covered with it. My pants were still soggy, but beginning to stiffen some.

The tireder I got, the worse it got about Ruby and everything. It seemed as if we’d been going on like this for centuries, and when I remembered it was only this morning I’d been with Ruby, and decided to try to wash out Aldercook with the gun, it was impossible.

“It’s from over that way,” Angers said. “Come on, pal, we’ll cut through here.”

“What the hell,” I said. “It’s only a piano.”

He turned and looked at me with his eyes kind of glazed over and that little crazy candle was burning in them.

You’re getting rattled, I thought. Quit thinking. It’s not good for you. So when he motioned to me again, I went along with him.

We crossed another yard under some slash pines and the ground was damp and springy underfoot. We got out there in the back of this big house and I could see a man and a woman sitting in the kitchen, all brightly lit, drinking coffee and eating pie. The woman was talking with a mouthful of pie and waving her fork at the man with her elbow resting on the table.

The piano was much clearer now. It was good playing, but maybe a little mechanical. One thing, it wasn’t a radio. Angers was right about that.

“This way,” he said.

We went along through back yards then. They were some yards, let me tell you; they were regular parks. I’d never really seen them before. Money could sure do things, all right. Yeah, money. Well, that’s the way it was and I had about twenty-six dollars, didn’t I? Money wasn’t important any more. I could have lit cigarettes with those bills I had, if they were dry, and it wouldn’t have meant a thing.

Funny about back there at the bayou, I kept thinking. He accepted my tackling him the way I had, just as though it were normal. He was on guard a little more, sure, but he just thought I’d got excited. I wondered if that’s what he really thought.

“It’s across the street,” he said.

So we went through some more yards and across the street under the street lights, and the piano was coming from a house about half a block up. You could tell. It was clear now, all right.

“Lord, that’s beautiful,” he said. “Come on, pal.”

“Why don’t we just stand here and listen?”

“I’ve got to see who’s playing that piano.”

I began to get a funny feeling in my stomach. I should have been used to it by now.

We went on along the sidewalk and then we were in front of this house. If anything, the homes over on this street were larger and richer and had more lawn and trees than those back where we’d come from.

This house was set way back at the end of a U-shaped drive and the only lights that we could see through the trees were in an immense window-walled room, like a sun room, over on the right.

“Come on, pal,” Angers said. His voice was like glass, hard and smooth. He waited till I was beside him, then we started across the lawn. We were underneath pines and cedars. The lawn was covered with a slippery carpet of needles and now and again you’d kick a pine cone and it would rattle and bounce along the ground.

Then the piano stopped.

He stopped as if he’d been hit and turned and looked at me.

“Wait,” he said.

We waited a minute. Then whoever was playing the piano began to hit one key slowly, over and over and over. He motioned to me and we started toward the lighted room again. The lights were soft, shining out of the windows, a soft orange. The house was made of stone, I could see now, something you don’t find much down here, and that alone spoke of money. Well, we crossed the drive and whoever it was kept slowly hitting that key. It began to get on my nerves, what with everything else.

There were big bushes beside the room, but they were trimmed in an oval shape, with space between. The ground between the bushes was clean and dark-looking, cut back from the freshly shaved lawn.

I took hold of his arm.

“Listen, we don’t want to do that.”

“I’ve got to see who’s playing that piano.”

“Whoever it is is just fussing now,” I said. “Can’t you hear? What does it matter?”

Then whoever it was began playing “Dancing in the Dark” again and I felt his arm tense under my hand, as hard as rock, and the roll of paper under his arm crinkled and snapped.

I could hear him breathe. He was breathing real fast, and when I got a look at his eyes, it was awful. I didn’t want to look at his eyes any more after that.

“Come on, pal.”

We went in there between the bushes and stood by the windows. There were Venetian blinds and heavy drapes, but they were all pulled back and it was wide open.

It was a little girl.

Her feet didn’t even touch the pedals on that big gleaming grand piano in the middle of the room. She was perched on the broad piano bench with her back to us. Long golden curls dangled down her back and she was playing away, rocking her shoulders a little, having fun with it. She was good, too. Real good. Not the best, naturally, but good.

“Listen to that, will you? Listen to her play,” Angers said. “So.”

“Let’s go,” I said. “We’ve seen it. Let’s don’t stand here.”

He didn’t answer. He just stood there, listening and watching, then he turned and pushed me out of the bushes. He kept tapping me on the arm with the gun, kind of pushing me along toward the front of the house. Our feet crunched on the gravel drive as we came around to the front of the house.

The front was like a hotel entrance. There were two big glass doors, and you could see into a very dim hallway. I could see tiny dim lights ranged along the wall of the hall inside.

“What are you going to do?” I asked him.

“We’re going inside,” he said.

“Look, we can’t do that. We can’t just walk into somebody’s house. They’ll kick us out,” I said. I laughed, forcing it, trying to reach him, and I was scared worse than ever.

“Bet nobody’s home but her,” he said. “Come on.” He pushed me up a couple of steps onto the flat porch. We were in front of the door. He reached out and tried the knob and the door swung open, heavy and without a sound. You could smell the house now. It smelled rich.

“Listen,” I said. “Ralph, listen. Don’t go in there.”

He tapped my arm with the gun, looking at me, but still not looking at me. His face was just the same, it hadn’t changed, but there was an eagerness in his actions.

I went in. We stood in a kind of vestibule and he reached for the other door that opened into the hall and it opened just like the other, without a sound. It swung heavy and sweet.

We went on into the hall and you could smell the house even better now. It must be something to live in a house like that. I didn’t know whether it was a good something, though. It would be like living in a library, or a museum.

The piano kept right on playing.

There was a big mirror there in the hall and in the dim orange-colored wall lights I saw Angers and myself. It scared me right to the floor. The different perspective showed me how crazy he looked, and I didn’t look much better. Him with his pale, strained face, his roll of paper, and the gun dangling from his arm. He looked, too, and kind of smiled at me in the mirror, then motioned with ‘his head.

I knew what he meant. I didn’t like it, but what else was there to do? Jump him? Sure, go ahead and jump him.

“Come on, pal,” he whispered.

We went around through a big living room, with shadowed paintings hanging on the wall. Over one of the paintings a light was lit, and the little light had been made just for the painting. It gleamed down in the darkened room, lighting up a violent picture of wild colors. It looked like maybe the artist had stood off about ten feet and socked gobs of color at his canvas with a slingshot. Any color that happened to come handy, and it didn’t matter where it landed.

We went on through there, then through a little alcove with rubber plants and ferns growing out of shadowed pots, and then we were in the room where the piano was.

It was a big room, all right, with window seats all around the windows piled here and there with pillows and a couple of books. There were bookshelves up against the wall where we entered. All the rest was windows. Over there was a huge record player, open, with stacks of records piled on it, and more records were strewn around the floor, albums open, like that.

Angers walked right on into the room, toward the piano.

The little girl looked up and saw him. Then she saw me, then she looked at him again, and she quit playing.

“Don’t stop,” Angers said.

The little girl swallowed and I saw she was old enough to be scared. She saw the gun in his hand and swallowed again, just sitting there. She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

“Play it,” Angers said. “Don’t stop, little girl. Keep right on playing. I want to listen to you play.”

T
HE HOUSE
was very quiet.

“You know my mommy?” the little girl said.

“No,” Angers said. “No, we don’t know your mommy. Play the piano,” he said. “Play.”

She sat there, looking up at him. I didn’t move. She had big round blue eyes and they were puzzled and frightened. She was maybe eleven years old, wearing a red and white polka-dot playsuit. She just kept on looking at Angers, and she didn’t move an inch. Her mouth was a small pink pout.

“Play, little girl,” Angers said. “Play that same song. The one you’ve been playing. Go ahead, little girl.”

She squirmed over to the side of the piano bench, her bare legs squeaking on the smoothly polished wood. She slid down to the floor and, without looking at either of us, started walking rapidly for the door.

“Here,” Angers said.

She kept right on walking. Her golden curls swung along her back.

Angers hurried over to her, took her shoulder. She stopped walking, but she didn’t turn around. He turned her around slowly and she kept looking at the gun in his hand.

“I just want to hear you play,” he said. “You’ve got to play for me.”

“I don’t want to play any more.”

“Please.”

“No.” She broke away and started for the door again, not running, just walking rapidly.

He rushed to her side and said, “You’ve got to play.”

My insides went all hollow.

I went over and said, “Play for him, will you? Just a little?”

She looked up at me with those round eyes. Hell, there was nothing I could do. What could I do? The poor little kid was scared silly. She wasn’t crying or anything, but I don’t know what held the tears back.

“Now, come on and play,” Angers said in that flat voice of his.

“How did you get in?” she said.

“Never mind,” Angers said. “We walked in. I want to hear you play now. What’s your name, little girl?”

“Joan.”

She said it without thinking, looking at him.

“That’s nice,” he said. “Get over to the piano.”

I stood there and he looked over at me and winked. It was like a doll winking, or a robot, maybe.

He took her by the shoulder and kind of ushered her over to the piano. Her feet dragged, but he got her there and then she got up on the piano bench.

“Play, Joan,” he said. “Play ‘Dancing in the Dark.’ ”

“I don’t want to.” She sat there, staring at the piano keys.

“But I want you to.” He leaned on the piano and laid the roll of paper down, then he laid the gun down, with his hand resting next to it. Then he stood up straight, with just his hand out by that gun.

“If—if I play for you, will you go home?”

“Yes, sure. Play the piano.”

She began to play. Only it wasn’t “Dancing in the Dark.”

“Wait,” he said. She stopped. “Play the other,” he said.

She began playing “Dancing in the Dark.” He just stood there and listened.

She played it fast. She went through it fine, without missing a note, only she played it much too fast. Nobody said a word and Angers just stood there, listening. Finally she finished, and looked up at him.

“Now will you go home?” she said.

“Play it again,” Angers said. “Play it like you did before, a little slower. Play it right.”

“I guess I played it too fast,” she said.

“Yes.”

“All right. I’ll play it just once more. Then you’ll have to go home. Mommy wouldn’t like it.”

Angers said nothing. He just watched her.

She swallowed again, put both hands up to pull her curls away from her neck where they were a little damp now, and she began playing again.

I went over and sat on the window seat. If her parents came home and found us here it was going to be bad. I looked at her and began to pray.

Angers stood there by the piano. He hadn’t moved. He was listening and nothing showed on his face, nothing. While she played, he picked up his gun and went over and got a chair and dragged it to the piano, so it was facing the little girl. Then he sat down with the gun in his hand, watching her and listening.

You could see it in her eyes, a kind of terrific fright that slowly grew back there in her head. If she’d been much older, she might have started screaming. Younger, she wouldn’t have even been scared. It would have been a party. But she was just right, where it all got to her, and she missed a note.

She glanced over at him as if she’d committed a terrible crime. He didn’t move a muscle. She took up where she left off and missed the same note again. Then she did it again and finally got it right and went on and her hands were beginning to tremble now.

She finished. “There,” she said. “Is that how you like it?”