The Mind-Murders (19 page)

12

"This is the best time of the day," Beelema said.

"They've all just got home and there'll be dinner in a minute. The town is quiet. The town is so much more beautiful when there's no bustle, don't you think? Like one of those old prints or glass paintings—they only show the buildings and the water, maybe a boat moored to a tree. People are a nuisance."

"Indeed," the commissaris said. He was leaning over the railing watching a duck. The duck's head was submerged, and it was waving its bright orange feet. A litle farther down a swan floated, asleep, its feathers precisely arranged. It bobbed almost imperceptibly on the slow ripple of the canal's weak current.

"It was good of you to come to see me. You're not here professionally, I understand?"

"Oh yes," the commissaris said, "I'm here professionally but not officially. You've committed a crime, but I won't arrest you if that's what you're getting at. My curiosity has brought me; I would like to know the details of what you managed to bring about."

Beelema undipped a gold toothpick off the chain that spanned his ample stomach and pressed it slowly between his teeth. He took it out and spat. The duck retrieved its head, quacked, and paddled away; the swan looked up sleepily and reinserted its beak between its backfeathers. "But perhaps you could arrest me. Some of my deeds could be proved, I suppose; you might get some sort of case together."

"No. The law we uphold is primitive. I would have to prove intent to kill. Did you intend to kill Boronski?"

Beelema fumbled with the toothpick. Its clip was small and he had to bring out his spectacles to finish the operation. "No, not really, but he died."

"You see, there goes one charge. Yet you killed the man as surely as if you had fired a bullet through his head. Death caused by guilt would be the better charge, but you would have to confess and I would have to produce witnesses who heard you state your intention to bother Boronski."

Beelema's fluffy white curls danced as he shook his head. "I wouldn't confess, and I told nobody, not even Hyme. The favor was a secret."

"Favor," the commissaris said softly.

Beelema smiled, and his golden canines caught the sunlight. "Yes, a favor to a friend. Hyme was harmed and couldn't defend himself. I have a talent; I'm imaginative and energetic. I'm also efficient. But I've reached all my goals. My hair salon is successful, I can live on it in luxury. The café goes well. I have all I want and to spare. I've no need for a car or a boat or an airplane or all the other gadgets rich people go in for. This area is all I care for, I hardly ever move outside it. When I found that I could help people unobtrusively, by pushing factors a little, by fitting parts into a whole, I began to experiment. I've been amazed at what I can do."

"Just amazed? Never frightened?"

"Never frightened. I listen to my friends, I observe them, I see what goes wrong with them, I also see ways to right the wrong. Sometimes I concentrate when I sit at the bar or walk about in my shop or stand on this bridge, but often the thoughts just pop into my head. You've seen two examples of my work. I liberated Frits Fortune and I balanced the scales in Hyme's head. There have been other examples that I won't mention because I'm not trying to impress you. I didn't ask for my talent. It just came to me to be used."

The commissaris was watching a sparrow now, investigating ripening seeds on a weed growing between stones. "Ah."

"You don't approve? You must be doing the same thing, or do you wait until there's a deadlock and the man goes down? Do you kick him when he is down? I've often wondered about the police. In a way I also police this area; I restore order."

The commissaris smiled. "We usually wait until it's too late.
Optima civi cives.
The highest value of a citizen is the citizenry. We'll let them muddle through as best they can and only interfere when they break the law."

"When it's too late."

The commissaris nodded. "When they break the law, it is too late. But they shouldn't break the law."

"Pfff."

"I beg your pardon?"

Beelema turned and found the right place for the railing to support his back. He was of the same size as the commissaris but nearly twice as wide.

"The law. Rules and regulations, I never liked them. As a toddler I took part in a school performance; I had to dance with the other kids in a circle. I kept on leaving the circle and dancing the other way. I don't remember that event, my mother told me about it. She was embarrassed. Everybody laughed and I wasn't allowed to finish the act. I see what goes wrong and I help others to find an original solution, contrary to custom. Fortune was unhappy, he'll be better off in his present position. Hyme was a wreck. He was turning into an alcoholic, swilling beer at my café, making a spectacle of himself on this bridge. Now he can face the world again. Boronski was a scoundrel; he didn't concern me until he crossed Hyme's path and therefore mine. I enjoyed that little game."

"Who was the lady who upset Boronski at Hotel Oberon?"

"Guess."

"Titania?"

"Never," Beelema said, poking the commissaris playfully in the side. "You don't know Titania, so you are excused. She can only perform when I'm right behind her. No, Rea Fortune, of course. She used to be an actress, not a very good one, I think, but good enough for this little drama. I mentioned the matter to her and she accepted immediately. Every woman is half a whore, Shakespeare said. She enjoyed being picked up by Boronski and went to the hotel with him. Sexually she is very capable. He had such a good time that he arranged for her to spend the night with him too at a stiff price, which he paid in advance. Even smart businessmen can be suckers. Rea used the cash to pay her expenses when she ran away from her husband." Beelema giggled. "Wonderful how it all fits together, don't you think? And she'll never breathe a word. She is with Zhaver now and Frits Fortune is going to give her a lot of money. Zhaver wants to open up on his own farther along, a small restaurant, I found it for him. There should always be change. He worked well for me, but it's time to replace him. I've already replaced Titania, too. How do you like the new girl?"

"Beautiful," the commissaris said.

"I've always liked black women. I'm having some white jumpsuits made for her. It'll be fun experimenting with how far the zipper should be pulled down. She has perfect breasts, but they shouldn't be exposed completely, I think."

The commissaris agreed.

'Til ask the adjutant and that handsome sergeant to be on the committee. They're good men; they have the talent, too, I think. I sometimes recognize it in others. Not too often, though; it must be rare.
You
have it."

"Do I really?" The sparrow flew off. The commissaris turned his back to the railing too. "And the car? How did you arrange that? Hyme didn't know, did he? My sergeant was going to ask him, but I cut the question off. I didn't want Hyme to run to you and prevent this conversation or alter it."

Beelema burped. "Excuse me. Too rich a meal again. It'll be worse when Zhaver opens his restaurant. I should really go on a diet. Hyme? No, he never knew. He has a habit of leaving his car keys on the counter, and that night he had a lot to drink. I slipped out and got the two kitchen boys at Hotel Oberon to help me push Boronski's Porsche away. Then I replaced it with Hyme's Porsche and took all the stuff that Boronski had in his car and rearranged it carefully in Hyme's. The kitchen boys changed the number plates. When I knew that Boronski had seen the car, I changed everything back to normal again. No, Hyme never knew. His Porsche was back where it had been by the time he went home."

"The kitchen boys also arranged the matter of the watch and the laundry?"

Beelema laughed. "You heard about that too? Yes. They were foreign students who have meanwhile left the country. They'll be hard to trace. They helped me with all the other setups too. Little things mostly. It's amazing how a man can be shaken by little things. I noticed that a long time ago at school, when I practiced on the teachers. It seems as if each man creates a foundation for himself, a pattern of habits. A teacher I particularly disliked would always hang his hat on a certain hook. I would take it off and hang it on the next hook. It drove him frantic. Nobody could understand why he got so upset. I sat in the hotel lounge sometimes and observed Boronski. I read some of his thoughts, analyzed his mind. He was neat. I arranged that the waitresses would spill on him, just a little, a drop of coffee, a tiny splash of ketchup. Can happen to anybody, they would apologize and pretend to clean his trousers or jacket and then they would worsen the stain somehow; women are very clever at that. There were other instances. I know the traffic attendant who writes out the parking tickets here; he drinks at my cafe. Boronski got a lot of tickets. My friend would wait for Boronski to come out of the hotel and make him pay in cash. And my dear old lady friend, Mrs. Cabbage-Tonto, pretended that Boronski had stepped on her Chihuahua and made a terrible scene in the street. Much more happened, I won't bore you with it all, but I had Boronski jumping during every waking minute, and I daresay I got into his dreams too."

"True," the commissaris said, "we live in patterns. We make them ourselves, they're our safety, and you dare to interfere with the patterns of others."

"With reason," Beelema said. "I'm entitled to do it; I have both the talent and the right. You don't agree?"

"No," the commissaris said.

"You don't," Beelema said. "I'm sorry to hear it. I thought you ,would agree. I've studied you a little. I took you for a superior man, like myself. But you're small-minded. You would be, of course, in your official capacity, but I thought you would liberate yourself from prejudice in your spare time. However, no matter, would you care to step into my cafe" and have a drink with me?"

"I would not," the commissaris said, "but I thank you for satisfying my curiosity."

Beelema did not move.

"Is that your last word? I had hoped for a little more."

"There is the law," the commissaris whispered so that Beelema had to lean over to hear him. "I don't mean the law in our books, that's no more than a projection. The true law is in all of us, in our center, in the core of our being, where we are all connected and where the illusion of identity no longer obscures our insight. If you have, as you say, the talent, you are misusing it. Reflect, sir, and take care."

13

Summer changed into autumn, the heavy rains had passed, and the air was crisp. It was late at night and Beelema walked by himself. Kiran wasn't with him. The dog had refused to leave the house and snarled when Beelema tried to pet him. The dog's behavior had been gradually changing; he no longer bothered people and seemed tired and listless. The veterinarian could find nothing wrong with the Great Dane. Beelema worried about the dog. If Kiran continued to snarl at him, he might have to get rid of his pet.

Beelema also worried about himself. He was getting fatter. He also drank too much. He had been drinking a lot that particular evening, served by the two lovely barmaids, one black, one Indonesian. Yet everything was going well. The bar was crowded every evening and Zhaver's restaurant, in which he had an interest, was usually booked days in advance. He was busy in bis hair salon too.

It's the time of the year, he thought, as he walked on, maneuvering around a corner and bumping his shoulder. It's autumn, nature is dying, the general decline affects me.

He bumped into a tree, softly, for his stomach protected him. Then he stumbled over a low fence. Really, Beelema thought, I must watch myself. I know every square inch of the area. This is where they keep blacktopping the same hole. Every time, it caves in again, and they bring out the machinery and make a new mess. He stepped back and walked around the fence.

A young man, a boy still, but tall and slender, walked toward the stumbling figure.

I still feel sexy, Beelema thought, that's good.

"You're a dear boy," he said aloud. "You're handsome. Walk with me a little way. We'll like each other."

The boy stopped. Beelema caressed his black leather jacket.

"Can I feel your skull? I like bare skulls. I shouldn't because I'm a hairdresser and naughty boys like you spoil my trade. You
are
naughty, aren't you?"

"Sure," the boy said. His teeth shone in a black regularly shaped face. Beelema's fat finger pressed on the aquiline nose.

"Yes, you are beautiful. Would you like some money? First we play together and then I give you some money. How much would you like, naughty boy?"

"He'll want all of your money," a voice said behind Beelema. Beelema tried to turn around but his shoulders were held.

"Let's take his gold too," the first boy said, "everything. He's got some in his mouth. Break it open and I'll knock it out. Use your knife."

"No," Beelema yelled, but his cry was cut short by a hand clasping his mouth. Another hand yanked off his watch chain. There seemed to be many hands, punching him, slapping his face, tugging at the rings on his fingers, removing his wallet, even the loose change from his pocket. The hands hurt him; there were hard feet too that kicked his ankles and shins. Then he felt a sharp pain in his neck.

"Don't say a word, sugar daddy, this is a sharp knife, it'll cut you and you'll bleed like a pig; you ever see a pig bleed?"

"Let's get bis teeth," the first boy said.

"Hold him, Til get my pliers. They're in the car. Don't run away now, sugar daddy, I'll be right back to take your nice teeth."

"And his nice balls," the first boy said. "He has gold balls too, haven't you, sugar daddy?"

Beelema pulled himself free. The boys allowed him to get away a few steps, then ran after him and pushed him down.

He fell on the fence, knocking it over, and rolled in the tar. The boys removed the top of the fence and pushed him so that he rolled on. He rolled till the tarmac was solid again, scrambled to his feet, and ran on. The boys were close behind, running soundlessly on their rubber-soled halfboots.

"Here," the first boy said.

A hand came down on Beelema's neck. He fell. There was the smell of blood.

"Bah, he's sticky. Give me that two-by-four. We'll roll him through that heap of feathers, maybe we can change him into a bird."

Beelema felt the hard edges of the stick and turned over to get away from it. Then there was nothing for a while. He woke because a light shone into bis face.

"What do we have here, Ketchup?"

"Good question, Karate. A ball of feathers with eyes. What are you, sir?"

Beelema crawled away to escape the harsh light

"Hey, stay here. What happened to you?"

The two policemen stared at each other. "What do we do now? Can't leave him. He's bleeding too."

"Ambulance," Karate said. "They'll fix him up at the hospital. Are you drunk, sir?"

Beelema tried to speak but coughed instead.

The ambulance arrived, but the attendants refused to lift him up. They found a plastic sheet and folded it so that it covered the stretcher.

"You take him in, you found him. It's the least you can do."

Karate went back to the fence and kicked until a thick board snapped free. He stuck the board between Beelema's legs and Ketchup held the other side. They lifted together.

"Right," the attendant said. "Easy now, don't drop him. Get him on the plastic. Yagh, what a mess."

"There you go, sir," Karate said. "We'll see you at the hospital."