Things Beyond Midnight (10 page)

“How do you mean?”

“Fits the personality. I simply choose the weapon which is, in my opinion, best suited. Each person has a distinctive personality.”

“Then—” Bendix watched the little man’s eyes behind the heavy lenses. “—you’ve killed before.”

“Oh, of
course
, Lieutenant. Five times prior to Mrs. Sloane. Five ladies.”

“And why have you waited until now to come to the police? Why haven’t you confessed before?”

“Because I chose not to. Because my goal had not been reached.”

“Which was?”

“An even six. In the beginning I determined to kill exactly six women and then give myself up. Which I have done. Every man should have a goal in life. Mine was six murders.”

“I see. Well—to get back to Mrs. Sloane. What happened after she let you in?”

“I put down my bag and walked back to her.”

“Where was she?”

“In the middle of the room, watching me. Smiling. Very friendly. Asking me questions about how the enhancer worked. Not suspecting a thing. Not until...”

“Until what, Mr. Pruyn?”

“Until I wouldn’t answer her. I just stood in front of her, smiling, not saying a word. Just standing there.”

“What did she do?”

“Got nervous. Quit smiling. Asked me why I wasn’t working on the set. But, I didn’t say anything. I just watched the fear grow in her eyes.” The little man paused; he was sweating, breathing hard now. “Fear is a really wonderful thing to watch in the eyes of a woman, Lieutenant, a
lovely
thing to watch.”

“Go on.”

“When she reached a certain point I knew she’d scream. So, just before she did, I clapped one hand over her mouth and kicked her.”

Bendix drew in his breath sharply. “What did you say you did?” he demanded.

“I said I
kicked
her—in the stomach—to knock the wind out of her. Then she couldn’t scream.” Pruyn chuckled softly, shaking his bald head. “It was fine. Fine.”

Bendix stubbed out his cigarette. Maybe, he thought, just maybe... “
Then
what?”

“I walked to the bag and selected the knife. Long blade. Good steel. Then I walked back to Mrs. Sloane and cut her throat. It was very rewarding. A goal well conquered.”

“Is that all?” Bendix asked, watching Pruyn’s eyes.

Because if he tells me about twenty-one cuts, then he’s our boy, thought Bendix. The kick in the stomach could be, just
could
be, something he’d figured out for himself. It’s done in the movies all the time. But, if he tells me about the cuts...

“Oh, there’s more, Lieutenant. Naturally, I rolled her over and left my trademark.”

“What kind of trademark?”

The small man grinned shyly behind the thick glasses. “Like the Sign of the Saint—or the Mark of Zorro,” he said. “My initials. On her back. E.T.P. Emery T. Pruyn.”

Bendix eased back in his chair, sighed, ran a slow tongue around his lips and shook out a fresh cigarette.

“Then I removed her ears.” He looked proud. “For my collection. I have six nice pairs now.”

“Wouldn’t have them
with
you, I don’t suppose?”

“Oh, no, Lieutenant. I keep them at home—in an attractive silver box in my dresser. Do you want to hear the rest of my story?”

“Sure. Go on.”

“Next, I took all of Mrs. Sloane’s perfume and emptied it in the kitchen sink. Four bottles.”

Like hell you did, thought Bendix. He recalled the small pink bottles of perfume on Mrs. Sloane’s dressing table—three quarters full.

“I can’t stand cheap perfume. Poured it all out. Every drop. Then I cut all her nightgowns to ribbons. Nightgowns are
foul,
don’t you agree? They smother the body I burned the pieces before I left.”

“That’s it, eh?”

“Yes. Then I went home. That was three days ago. I arranged my affairs, put things in order and came here, to you. I’m ready for my cell.”

“No cell, Mr. Pruyn.”

“What do you mean, Lieutenant?” Emery Pruyn’s lower lip began to tremble. He stood up. “I—I don’t understand.”

“I mean you can go now.”

“But, I—I—”

“Goodnight, Mr. Pruyn. Officer Barnhart will show you out.”

From the door of his office, Norman Bendix watched the two figures recede down the narrow hall.

An odd one, he thought, a
real
odd one.

Emery Pruyn pulled the Buick out of the police parking lot and eased the big car into the evening flow of traffic.

So easy, he thought, so wonderfully exciting and easy, his sortie into the lion’s den. The excitement of it was very much like the excitement with the knife. Delicious, the way he’d included that bit about the kick in the stomach. Dangerous, but brilliant. The false confession performed by a master!

Emery Pruyn smiled as he drove, remembering the look on the Lieutenant’s face when he’d mentioned the kick. Absolutely delicious! Well, more excitement was ahead.

Much
more.

00:05
A REAL NICE GUY

Warm sun.

A summer afternoon.

The sniper emerged from the roof door, walking easily, carrying a custom-leather guncase.

Opened the case.

Assembled the weapon.

Loaded it.

Sighted the street below.

Adjusted the focus.

Waited.

There was no hurry.

No hurry at all.

He was famous, yet no one knew his name. There were portraits of him printed in dozens of newspapers and magazines; he’d even made the cover of
Time.
But no one had really seen his face. The portraits were composites, drawn by frustrated police artists, based on the few misleading descriptions given by witnesses who claimed to have seen him leaving a building or jumping from a roof, or driving from the target area in a stolen automobile. But no two descriptions matched.

One witness described a chunky man of average height with a dark beard and cap. Another described a thin, extremely tall man with a bushy head of hair and a thick mustache. A third description pegged him as balding, paunchy and wearing heavy hornrims. On
Time
’s cover, a large blood-soaked question mark replaced his features—above the words
WHO IS HE
?

Reporters had given him many names: “The Phantom Sniper”... “The Deadly Ghost”... “The Silent Slayer”... and his personal favorite, “The Master of Whispering Death.” This was often shortened to “Deathmaster” but he liked the full title; it was fresh and poetic—and
accurate.

He
was
a master. He never missed a target, never wasted a shot. He was cool and nerveless and smooth, and totally without conscience. And death indeed whispered from his silenced weapon: a dry snap of the trigger, a muffled pop, and the target dropped as though struck down by the fist of God.

They were
always
targets, never people. Men, women, children. Young, middle-aged, old. Strong ones. Weak ones. Healthy or crippled. Black or white. Rich or poor. Targets—all of them.

He considered himself a successful sharpshooter, demonstrating his unique skill in a world teeming with moving targets placed there for his amusement. Day and night, city by city, state by state, they were always there, ready for his gun, for the sudden whispering death from its barrel. An endless supply just for him.

Each city street was his personal shooting gallery.

But he was careful. Very careful. He never killed twice in the same city. He switched weapons. He never used a car more than once. He never wore the same clothes twice on a shoot. Even the shoes would be discarded; he wore a fresh pair for each target run. And, usually, he was never seen at all.

He thought of it as a sport.

A game.

A run.

A vocation.

A skill.

But never murder.

His name was Jimmie Prescott and he was thirty-one years of age. Five foot ten. Slight build. Platform shoes could add three inches and body pillows up to fifty pounds. He had thinning brown hair framing a bland, unmemorable face. He shaved twice daily—but the case of wigs, beards and mustaches he always carried easily disguised the shape of his mouth, chin and skull. Sometimes he would wear a skin-colored fleshcap for baldness, or use heavy glasses—though his sight was perfect. Once, for a lark, he had worn a black eye patch. He would walk in a crouch; or stride with a sailors swagger, or assume a limp. Each disguise amused him, helped make life more challenging. Each was a small work of art, flawlessly executed.

Jimmie was a perfectionist.

And he was clean: no police record. Never arrested. No set of his prints on file, no dossier, He had a great deal of money (inherited) with no need or inclination to earn more. He had spent his lifetime honing his considerable skills: he was an expert on weaponry, car theft, body-combat, police procedures; he made it a strict rule to memorize the street system of each city he entered before embarking on a shoot. And once his target was down he knew exactly how to leave the area. The proper escape route was essential.

Jimmie was a knowledgeable historian in his field: he had made a thorough study of snipers, and held them all in cold contempt. Not a worthwhile one in the lot. They
deserved
to be caught; they were tools and idiots and blunderers, often acting out of neurotic impulse or psychotic emotion. Even the hired professionals drew Jimmies ire—since these were men who espoused political causes or who worked for government money. Jimmie had no cause, nor would he ever allow himself to be bought like a pig on the market.

He considered himself quite sane. Lacking moral conscience, he did not suffer from a guilt complex. Nor did he operate from a basic hatred of humankind, as did so many of the warped criminals he had studied.