The Triumph of Evil Read online

  It is in the nature of pigeons, Dorn thought, to shit on statues.

  It occurred to him that this woman might be feeding such a chemical to the pigeons. She might even be poisoning them. It was impossible to say with certainty.

  He took a taxi back to his hotel, packed, checked out. He caught an afternoon flight to Charleston and a bus to Willow Falls.

  “How was New York?”

  “Exhausting,” he told her. In German he recited its faults. German was a good language for finding fault. “It is, in the first place, impossible to breathe the air or drink the water. There is a trash receptacle on every corner, but no one seems to have informed the public of its function. Consequently the streets and sidewalks are strewn with garbage. One cannot walk a block without being accosted by several panhandlers, perhaps a third of whom were better dressed than I. All of the taxis seem to be permanently off duty. Everyone is shrunken and sullen-faced. No one smiles. I see no reason why anyone should.”

  “I was going to say I wished I could have gone along, but you don’t make it sound very wonderful.”

  “It was not very wonderful at all. Be glad you were here. Anyone who goes unnecessarily to New York is flirting with commitment to a mental hospital. The city itself is a mental hospital, all patients and no staff.”

  “Oh, poor Miles.”

  “I survived. Actually I spent almost all my time at the Public Library. An excellent institution. And, perhaps because I hated the city so much, I managed to get an impressive amount of research done in a week’s time.”

  “I wish you would give me at least a hint of what this project is about.”

  “In due time. You see, I know that if I talk about it, I won’t get around to doing it.”

  “I don’t mean to bug you.” When he squinted at the idiom, meaningless in German, she translated it.

  “But you don’t bug me,” he said.

  “At least you won’t have to go back to New York again, will you?”

  “I sincerely hope I will never have to go back there,” he said.

  “You’re a good cook,” she said. “This is really delicious. I don’t know how to cook anything.”

  “It’s not hard to learn.”

  “Do you give cooking lessons? I could afford them, now that my German lessons are free.”

  “I learn more from you than I teach you, Jocelyn.”

  She put her fork down, raised her face slowly to his. She spoke to him with her face. If you want, her face said. If you would like it, I too would like it. Truly. But you’re the one who must decide.

  “It’s warm,” he said. “I’ll open a window.”

  EIGHT

  Less than a week after his return from New York, Dorn packed a suitcase and rode a bus to Charleston. From Charleston he flew on Delta Airlines to New Orleans. The name on his ticket was not one he had used before. He used that name again to register at a medium-priced hotel in the Quarter. In his room he unpacked his suitcase and placed his clothes in the bureau and closet. He took the Sanitized wrapper off the toilet seat and raised the seat. He unwrapped one of the water tumblers, drew a glass of water, drank some of it—it tasted of chlorine—and set the half empty glass on top of the dresser. He look off the bedspread, got into bed, rumpled the bedclothing briefly, dented the pillow with his head, and got out of bed again. He closed the blinds and turned up the air conditioning.

  On his way out of the room he dropped the Do Not Disturb sign onto the doorknob. He knew several ways to lock a door from the inside while being on the outside. None of I them worked with this particular type of lock. There was a transom, but the desirability of leaving the door locked from the inside did not seem to him to outweigh the probable consequences of being seen crawling through his own transom, nor did he much like the idea of trying to crawl back in again. Nor, for that matter, did a broken leg lend itself to his plans.

  He stopped at the hotel coffee shop, ate a quick breakfast, signed the chit with his current name and room number. He kept his room key, and left the hotel through the coffee shop’s street entrance to avoid passing the desk.

  A taxi look him back to the airport. He had earlier reserved a seat under another new name on an American Airlines flight to Kennedy Airport, which he still thought of as Idlewild. (“You can’t be a saint without martyrdom.”) His flight was called for boarding ten minutes after he arrived at the airport.

  He enjoyed the flight. One of the stewardesses reminded him in some indefinable way of Jocelyn, although there was no actual physical resemblance. He ate an adequate meal and had several cups of tea.

  He spent a good deal of time thinking about Emil Karnofsky, but thought about other things as well.

  Although he had long since destroyed all of the capsule biographies Heidigger had given him, his memory of them was eidetic.

  Emil Karnofsky. Director, National Brotherhood of Clothing Workers. Member, national board, AFL-CIO. Jew. First major labor leader to take antiwar position. Union membership chiefly black, Puerto Rican. Respected by colleagues but regarded as New York Jew leftist. Termination advised to foster solidarity in labor circles. Strongly recommend termination via natural causes or accident. If unavoidably otherwise, political motivation must not be suggested. Age: 77. Widower. Three children, eight grandchildren …

  His flight was stacked in a holding pattern over Kennedy for almost two hours, to the dismay of most of Dorn’s fellow passengers, at least one of whom seemed to hold the stewardesses personally accountable. Dorn was unbothered by the delay. He had allowed for it.

  A telephone conversation:

  “Hello, Mr. Tompkins?”

  “No, this is Emil Karnofsky. Did you wish to speak with Mr. Tomkins?”

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. William Tompkins, yes.”

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Tompkins is not in now. I expect him in about two hours, perhaps sooner. If you would care to—”

  “Do you have a number where he can be reached?”

  “May I ask who is calling?”

  “This is Sgt. Bernard Cleary attached to the 47th police precinct in Astoria.”

  “Oh, I hope nothing’s—”

  “Do you have a number where Mr. Tompkins can be reached?”

  “Yes, I do. Excuse me a moment. Yes. Sergeant?”

  “Yes.”

  “The number is 868 … .”

  Another telephone conversation: “Hello?”

  “Mr. William Tompkins, please.”

  “Right. Just a minute. Bill? Take your time, it’s a man.”

  “Hello?”

  “Is this William Tompkins? Mr. Tompkins, this is Sgt. Bernard Cleary … .”

  Another telephone conversation: “Hello?”

  “Mr. Karnofsky, this is—”

  “Yes, Bill, I was waiting for you to call. It’s your mother?”

  “They just called me. They—”

  “Are you all right, Bill?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be all right. She—”

  “Take your time, Bill.”

  “Someone broke in and beat her real bad, Mr. Karnofsky. Some crazy man. A woman like that, a sweet woman like that, to break into her house and beat her—”

  “Is she all right?”

  “They got her down at the hospital. They don’t know, you know, how she’s … . how she’s gonna—”

  “Go straight there, Bill. Take the car. Unless you don’t think you should drive.”

  “No cab’s going to Astoria at this hour. I’m all right now, Mr. Karnofsky. And driving calms me. I relax myself driving whereas I worry when someone else drives me.”

  “Go ahead, then. And don’t worry about me. I want you to stay with your mother as long as she needs you, as long as you feel you want to be with her.”

  “You’re a good man, Mr. Karnofsky. You are good to me.”

  “Oh, now.”

  “I don’t like to leave you, Mr. Karnofsky.”

  “Am I a child afraid of the dark? I can take my own shot, I c
an turn off my own lights, and in the morning I can make my own breakfast. And if I have anywhere to go tomorrow or the next day or as long as it takes, Bill, I can call downtown, and they will send me a car and a driver. Now go to your mother and stop wasting your time talking to an old man… .”

  Another telephone conversation:

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, is this Rebecca Warriner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Rebecca, my name is Milton Burdett. Howard Kleinman said I ought to give you a call.”

  “Howard Kleinman.”

  “From Kansas City?”

  “I guess so.”

  “He may have just said Howard, I don’t—”

  “Yeah, right. Be cool on the phone, right?”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s okay. Did you, uh, you wanted to come up?”

  “I would like that.”

  “You know the address?”

  “Yes, I have it.”

  “Give me your name again, because the doorman will have to announce you.”

  “Milton Burdett. With two T’s.”

  “He’s not going to spell it, Milton.”

  “Oh, of course. There won’t be any trouble with the doorman, will there? Howard—I didn’t know about a doorman.”

  “Not the way I tip, there won’t be, Milton. You come right up. I’m glad you called, I was lonely.”

  Dorn rode the elevator to the fourteenth floor. He rang the bell of Apartment 14-D, and the door was opened almost immediately by a tall girl with very long black hair. She was wearing skintight black slacks and a yellow sweater. She had large breasts.

  She said, “Milton? Come in, let’s get acquainted. Do I call you Milton or Milt?”

  “Milton,” Dorn said. “I don’t have much time.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame. I thought we could have a good long time together.”

  Dorn found it remarkable that she could invest the words with such sincerity.

  “I have … a special thing,” he said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  He drew a pair of fifty-dollar bills from his wallet and handed them to her. She reached out for the money, then drew her hand back.

  “I don’t take beatings,” she said. “Except with a cloth belt that I have. Or being tied up, I don’t do that.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to do anything like that.”

  “Well, maybe you could tell me in front what it is you want me to do.”

  “In front?”

  “Now, I mean.”

  “Oh. I understand. I would like you to take off all your clothing.”

  “So far we’re in business. And?”

  “And I want you to do jumping jacks.”

  “Huh?”

  “Jumping jacks,” he said happily. “Have you never done jumping jacks?” He stood with his feet together and his hands at his sides, then sprang, and flung his arms up so that he wound up with his feet spread and his hands touching above his head. He returned to the original posture, then repeated the whole process. “Jumping jacks.”

  “Oh, sure. Jumping jacks. We used to do that in an exercise class.”

  “Then you’ll do them?”

  “I suppose. What’ll you be doing while I’m doing jumping jacks?”

  “I will sit in that chair,” he said, “and I will watch you.”

  “That’s it?” He nodded. “Groovy,” she said, taking the money. “You’re nice, Milton.”

  “And don’t talk while you do the jumping jacks.”

  “Anything you say.”

  He seated himself in the chair. It was quite comfortable. The whole apartment was tastefully furnished. She undressed quickly. He beamed at her. She began doing jumping jacks. He watched her as attentively as he possibly could. Much of his flight time had been devoted to determining what he would ask her to do. It had to be something that involved no disrobing on his part, and no physical contact.

  She went on doing jumping jacks and he watched her breasts bounce heroically. After a few moments he stiffened, then slumped in the chair. Eyes closed he said, “You can stop now.”

  “That was quick.”

  “Usually I can last longer.”

  “It’s a compliment to my excitingness. You’re very sweet, Milton. You want a Coke or something?”

  “I have to go.”

  “Uh-huh. You come and see me next time you’re in town, okay? That was lots of fun.”

  “And good exercise.”

  “Oh, it certainly was. Keeps me in shape. ‘Bye, now.”

  He walked toward the elevator. When her door closed he doubled back and walked down four flights of stairs. He knocked softly on the door of Apartment 10-H. There was no response. He knocked again, somewhat louder. There was still no response.

  He put his ear to the door and listened very carefully. He heard nothing.

  There were four locks on the door of Apartment 10-H. One of them took him 30 seconds. The others were somewhat easier. After he had picked the fourth and last lock, he put on his gloves again and wiped the door where he might have touched it. He listened again, very carefully, and let himself inside.

  The apartment was dark except for a ten-watt night-light in one hallway. He let his eyes accustom themselves to the dimness. Then he took off his shoes and crept around in his stocking feet until he found Emil Karnofsky’s bedroom.

  He used a pencil-beam flashlight. Karnofsky was sleeping on his side, clutching his pillow. Sparse gray hair, a prominent nose, a forceful jaw.

  He tiptoed to the bedside and stood for a moment, deep in thought. Then he stooped and placed one hand over Karnofsky’s mouth while his other sought purchase on the back of the old man’s neck. He was gentle, very gentle, taking away the chance of consciousness but being careful not to take away life as well.

  He moved around the apartment, making sure the blinds were drawn. Then he turned on the living room lights and carried Karnofsky to the living room. The man did not stir. He went back to the bedroom for the silk dressing gown he had noticed there before. He took it to the living room and got Karnofsky’s arms into it.

  He stripped himself to the waist, placing his clothing neatly on Karnofsky’s couch. From his jacket pocket he took out an eight-inch length of steel pipe wrapped not too thickly with electrical tape. He lifted Karnofsky and propped him against a wall. The man still had not stirred but was breathing regularly.

  Dorn smashed his skull with four blows.

  It occurred to him as he was doing so that he should have removed his gloves, but no blood got on them, or on his person. He dressed quickly but carefully. Then he went through the apartment room by room, turning lights on as he entered each room and off as he left it. He pulled open drawers, slashed mattresses, knocked books off shelves. He made the greatest mess possible in the shortest amount of time. He found several hundred dollars in a drawer of the bedside table and almost a thousand in the butter compartment of the refrigerator. He added this to the money in his wallet. He removed every picture he came to until he found the one behind which the wall safe was located. He made no attempt to open the wall safe.

  When he was through, he turned off the living room light and listened with his ear against the door for several moments. He put the tape-wrapped pipe on the floor near Karnofsky’s corpse. He opened the door quietly and let himself out. He climbed four flights of stairs to Rebecca Warriner’s floor and rang for the elevator. On the way down he smiled a lot and did not look at the camera.

  The doorman treated him to a smirk and hailed him a taxi. He took the cab to the Hotel Somerset. He waited while it drove off, then walked a block in the opposite direction and took a taxi to Penn Station. There he picked up a third taxi and rode out to Kennedy Airport. The driver talked endlessly of baseball.

  He waited over an hour before his flight was called. Takeoff was on schedule, and arrival at New Orleans was 12 minutes early. Dorn dozed on the plane and smiled at memories of Rebecca Warriner. Not of her long black hair, not of he
r bouncing breasts, but of her dialogue, and of her immutable poise. Why were his best stories ones he could tell no living ear?

  A taxi from the airport let him off within a block of his hotel. He bought a paper and read it as he ate breakfast in his hotel’s coffee shop. He went through the lobby to the elevator and rode up to his room. As far as he could tell, no one had been in it since he had left. He showered and put on clean clothes. He turned the Do Not Disturb sign around so that it read Maid Please Make Up This Room As Soon As Possible. On his way out he left his room key at the desk.

  He slept for four hours in a movie theater, waking when some fool put a hand on his leg. He left the theater and bought an evening paper. There were several items he found noteworthy, but nothing about Karnofsky. He stopped at a bar and nursed a glass of wine through the six o’clock newscast. There was a brief item to the effect that Emil Karnofsky had been beaten to death during a burglary of his New York apartment.

  He had dinner at an excellent restaurant near his hotel and walked over to Preservation Hall to listen to the music, but the place was crowded and he did not stay long. He went back to his hotel and read for a few hours before going to sleep.

  He read the story in the New Orleans morning newspaper. The content was about as he had expected. He went looking for a drugstore with a pay telephone.

  A long-distance telephone call:

  “Hello?”

  “Hello.”

  “I hoped you’d call. We liked your timing but the touch was heavy, don’t you think?”

  “What?”

  “You’re good on the calendar but—”

  “Let me talk, I’m too upset to listen.”