Fury on Sunday Page 3

  There was an old woman coming up the steps carrying a scrub pail and mop, a bandanna wrapped around her grey head. Vince stepped back hurriedly. If he went through the third floor door and waited there the old woman might go in there, too, and see him. He might even run into somebody else. But if he stayed on the steps, she might go up another flight and see him anyway.

  Kill her! He clutched down at the pistol.

  Once more he caught himself. Don’t be a fool. A shot would arouse everyone. Especially in this stair well, it would echo all over the building. His head moved around as he looked for escape. A rushing of notes hung in his head like the beginning of a wild cadenza. The steps came closer—weary, trudging steps on the metal stairs. He backed against the wall and almost screamed out in hate.

  It had always been that way. His temper had come over him like this. There would be a particular phrase to practice and Vince would work it over on the keys again and again, but still it wouldn’t come. And his temper like steam building up in a boiler, would keep growing, and finally, in a great roar, it would break out in a scream of frustration and he would double his fists and drive them like pistons into the keys. He would smash down clusters of black and white keys, making an endless chain of dissonances that would ring out in the penthouse apartment. He’d keep hitting even though his hands were bruised on the edges of the ivory keys and started to ooze blood. And he’d keep doing it until Saul came rushing in, screaming louder than Vince. He liked to do that, upset Saul. And the only way he could do it was to place those hands of his in some peril. It was the only thing that mattered to Saul about Vince. About anything.

  And when the screaming and the pounding were done and he sat there at the piano heaving with sobs and unable to talk, Saul would make him start in again and perfect that phrase. And he always did. “Master technician.” That was what the critics had called him. “The virtuosity of a Horowitz… No heart discernible but virtually unsurpassed for technique.”

  All of this flooded through Vince’s mind as he pressed his lips together to keep the scream from flooding out. He was trapped. It was the feeling he always got. The world was closing in on him and he must kick and scream to be free of it.

  Instinct drove him back up the steps to cower in the shadowed landing, half-way to the fourth floor. Instinct pressed him against the cold wall and snuffed out his breath.

  Vince watched the old scrub woman push through the third floor door. He watched the door swing slowly shut and thud into its frame. A smile relaxed his features. His hands lost their rigidity.

  One more how and then we’ll get home to work on that Mozart phrase you desecrated this evening.

  He moved down the stairs quickly, eagerly. In a half minute he was down to the first floor. He pushed open the door cautiously but the hallway was empty. Vince hurried down the length of it and reached the door. He pushed out through it and was on the street.

  At first he wanted to stand there and stretch out his arms to the moon. The air was cool and delicious to the smell. He could have sung out in joy.

  But there was no time; there was a thing to be done. Bob was still alive and, as long as he was, Ruth would be waiting to be freed. Vince started walking rapidly down the block alongside of the bleak grey building. He shivered a little in the cold morning air. How cool and clean it tasted after the smell of the ward with its unclean beds and the smell of many bodies crowded together.

  Poor Ruth, Poor Ruth, Poor Ruth, his feet drummed on the sidewalk. He wondered if it was possible that Bob had drugged her. There had been that harmony teacher in Cincinnati, Vince remembered, who had kept his beautiful young wife under narcotics so she’d be faithful. His hands clenched together.

  Ruth, Ruth! Her beautiful face twisted with pain, her lovely body profaned and—

  He stopped thinking of that. He mustn’t think of Ruth that way. She was purity and thoughts like that would spoil the memory of her. She was above that. So was he. They would live like brother and sister. They would!

  Suddenly he realized he was standing still on the street, holding himself stiffly. He hurried on. The subway, the subway, where was it? He’d only ridden it twice in his whole life. Once with Ruth just to see what it was like. Then another time when he and Saul had been stuck down in the Village somehow with no one to take them back to the penthouse and no cabs available.

  Vince remembered that night as he walked along toward the corner. Saul had asked directions about ten times. And still they’d gotten lost and ended up in Columbus Circle. What a fool Saul was.

  The cold began to seep through his flannel shirt. Suddenly he stopped again. What a fool he’d been not to take a raincoat! Not only was it cold, but someone might recognize the grey flannel uniform of the maid. And the pistol bulged in his pants pocket.

  He looked around and saw some darkened brownstone dwellings to his right. He looked into the lighted lobby and then he found himself jumping up the steps two at a time. He had to have a raincoat.

  The vestibule door was locked. He looked at the names. Martinez—3B, Johnson—3A. They were no good. Vince skipped the names on the second floor too. He pushed the button under Maxim—1A.

  He waited. There was no answer. They must be in bed, he thought. He pushed the button again, more impatiently. He had to have a raincoat. Still no answer. He began to wonder how he’d feel after he pushed the button to Ruth’s apartment. He wondered just how he’d feel as he rode up the elevator with the pistol gripped tightly in his hand. He wanted that time to come, wanted it desperately. He felt angry frustration that he’d have to wait so long before it came.

  The buzzer sounded. Vince started nervously, but forgot to push against the door. He tensed violently and almost kicked in the thick glass. Then the buzzer sounded again and he lurched against the door and pushed through it.

  He moved quickly as a door down the hall opened a trifle. He ran to it and shoved his foot into the small opening.

  “Open up,” he said to the young woman who stood there.

  She gasped and tried to close the door. His foot prevented her from doing it. Vince reached for his pistol with an angry motion and almost shoved the end of the barrel into her face.

  “Do you want to die?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

  The girl’s face went white, her lips trembled and she backed away from the door. He pushed his way in. The girl was cowering back against the wall.

  “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t do anything to me. Please don’t.”

  She winced as he turned on the hall light. In the bright light Vince could see that her hair was disarrayed and there were red scars on her right cheek where she’d been resting on the pillow.

  “Have you got a man’s raincoat here?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “I want a man’s raincoat,” he snapped at her.

  Then, without thought, he looked down over her pajama covered body. His eyes moved back to her young breasts pressing against the yellow silk. He pinched his lips together. No! snapped his mind and, mocking, in the background came the voice of Saul, My dear boy, if the pressure is annoying, relieve yourself. You don’t need a woman for that.

  He felt a drop of sweat run into his mouth.

  “Well?” he said angrily, forgetting for the moment what he was asking her about.

  “I live alone here,” she said, “I—I haven’t got a man’s raincoat.”

  His hand twitched at his side. He wanted to hit her for foiling him. He couldn’t go to another apartment. He was getting that trapped feeling again. He’d always been that way. If he wanted something and couldn’t get it the first time, he started to feel frustrated. That’s how he felt now. He couldn’t go to all the apartments when he had to get to the subway and get downtown. A fresh idea came to torture him; what if the guard regained consciousness and got the police out looking for him? Sooner or later he’d wake up and tell them. His breath grew restless, his finger trembled on the trigger.

  “Get in the bedroom,” he hear
d himself say.

  He followed her in, wondering why he wasn’t leaving. If there was no raincoat here, what was the point in staying? He fought against the ugly pressure in his body. He didn’t like it. No, he wasn’t that kind; that was insane.

  “Turn on the lights,” he ordered.

  She stood by the rumpled bed, looking at him and shivering a little.

  “What are you going to do?” Her voice was thin and afraid.

  He didn’t answer. Instead he went to the closet door as if he knew what he was going to do. He flung open the door and reached in, trying to avoid the sight of her slender body. She’s sort of pretty, the thought rose unbidden in his mind. Blonde hair like Ruth. I’d like to—

  He dug his teeth into his lower lip and turned to face the closet completely, not even looking at her. He reached in and came out with a black trenchcoat. He tried it on and it fit pretty well, and the cut wasn’t too feminine. He’d have to chance it.

  “Have you a telephone?” he asked, still not able to understand how he managed to think of all these details when his mind was so obsessed by the one desire to kill Bob.

  “No,” she said.

  He wouldn’t have to cut any wires then, he told himself and nodded once. Still he stood there not knowing what to do, his mind filled with a dozen questions. Should he leave the girl? Wouldn’t she call the police? Should he shoot her? Wouldn’t the people in the house hear the shot? Vince started to tremble nervously at all the disturbing elements that his coming in here had brought on. That was the trouble with life, no matter what you did it just made everything more confusing. Kill Bob, that was what he had to concentrate on. Get to the subway and kill Bob.

  His eyes re-focused on the girl who still stood there watching him. He shouldn’t kill her. She hadn’t done anything to him. She was a pretty girl and she didn’t mean him any harm. Only an insane man killed everybody. He only wanted to kill certain people like Harry and Bob. Harry was dirty and fat, and Bob was torturing Ruth. But that was all. There was Saul, too, but Vince didn’t know where Saul was.

  But he didn’t kill the guard, he’d only knocked him out. Didn’t that prove he wasn’t crazy? His face softened without him realizing and the expression he directed at the girl was one of supplication.

  “Are you sick?” said the girl.

  Her tone and the words she used broke the spell.

  Vince’s mouth tightened, his face lost all softness.

  “I’ll show you how sick I am,” he said and pulled the trigger of the pistol.

  There was a click. And suddenly, Vince felt cold sweat break out on his body. God, was he insane to make such a loud noise in this house? He gritted his teeth.

  He had to save those bullets, too. He hadn’t thought to look and see how many there were, but there could be no more than five. It was lucky that chamber was empty.

  He saw that the girl was wavering as if she were going to faint.

  “Get in bed,” he told her.

  She sank down weakly on the bed, her hands shaking in her lap.

  “Get under the covers,” he said.

  “Wh-wh-why?”

  “I said get in bed!”

  As she lay back the top of her pajamas slipped up and he saw an expanse of white skin. His heart pounded violently and he lowered his head an instant to hide the swallowing.

  Hastily the girl drew up the blankets. She lay there watching him with glazed, frightened eyes.

  “Close your eyes.” he said.

  She put her head down on the pillow and closed her eyes. Then a sob broke in her throat and she opened them again. Her voice shook.

  “Are you g-going to hurt… me?”

  “Close your eyes.”

  He moved closer, enjoying the feeling of power it gave him to hold life and death in his palm. He thought of killing Bob. He thought of how grateful Ruth would be when Bob was dead, how she would throw her arms around his neck and kiss him and…

  “I said close your eyes!” he yelled.

  He looked down at her white face. Then, abruptly, he flung back the covers and stared down at her body. His hand moved down.

  Get involved and you’ll regret it, my fine young fool!

  His hand jerked back. He threw the covers over her again and stood there looking down sullenly.

  “I ought to kill you,” he said. “You’re not a clean girl. But I won’t because I’m not as crazy as you think. Remember that if anyone asks you.”

  A breathless chuckle sounded in his throat.

  “They’ll ask you all right,” he said as casually as he could.

  Then he bent over and kissed her on the cheek. Her eyes rolled up and she quietly fainted. He didn’t notice.

  “Cheerio,” he said and walked out of the bedroom and the apartment, feeling a pleasant sense of bravura. He hadn’t killed the wretched young nothing. He’d just taken her raincoat as any hero might, leaving her with a kiss on the cheek. That was heroic, it was the sort of thing a girl would remember. She wouldn’t tell anyone. She’d treasure this experience because it was romantic. No, he hadn’t touched a hair on her head. That’s because he wasn’t insane. He’d just tried to kill his father, that was all. Anyone might try to kill his father.

  ***

  He stopped at the head of the subway steps and looked around.

  There was no one following. As he had surmised, the girl hadn’t screamed for help when he left. She was probably lying there and dreaming of the handsome man who had kissed her and stolen her raincoat. He smiled a smile of tragic acceptance and moved slowly down the steps.

  Halfway down he stopped, the sense of poetry gone suddenly with the realization that he had no money. He stood there looking blankly down the steps. This is absurd! The words exploded in his mind.

  His hand tightened on the gun butt. He wasn’t going to let a ridiculous thing like this stop him. He walked down past the white tiled walls. He glanced at a seal balancing rye bread on its nose on one of the posters. Gust of the bizarre. That’s what Saul would say. Vince wondered where he was, wondered if it were possible that someday they could get together again and get Vince back into concert work. Vince didn’t like to admit it to himself sometimes, but he did miss the piano. He could tell himself that nothing mattered but Ruth, and the piano was unimportant. But why did his hands always move over the keys even though he hadn’t been near one in… how long?

  Oh, what difference did it make where Saul was? Their lives were parted forever. Ever since that day in the penthouse. Vince remembered the rain; he remembered Saul backing away from him. For the love of God, are you mad? Vincent!

  It was the only time he could ever remember his father calling him by his name.

  He pushed again. Then he looked down curiously and saw that he was shoving futilely against the wooden turnstile. Red flared up in his cheeks. Then he glanced hurriedly toward the change booth and saw that the man was looking at him.

  Vince drew in his breath. The man started to open the door of the booth, and suddenly, Vince ducked down and darted underneath the turnstile. What if no train comes! He ran down the sloping floor, heart beating in fright.

  “Hey, come back here, you!”

  Vince reached the steps and jumped down them two at a time. The shouts of the man from the change booth echoed after him in the silent station.

  “Come back here!”

  Vince reached the platform and his eyes raced up and down the length of it. It was empty. He looked back up the steps to see if the man was following him. Then he leaned over the edge of the platform and looked out into the blackness to see if the train was coming. There was nothing. He looked up and saw that he was looking for the train that was going uptown. He moved for the other side of the platform, glancing at the stairs again.

  “You ain’t gettin’ away, buddy!”

  Vince gasped and his head twisted suddenly. He saw the man coming down the steps. He turned around and started running along the grey concrete. He heard the clatter of the man’s s
hoes behind him. It was an older man with white hair, wearing a black coat sweater.

  “You stop or I’ll use this gun!” threatened the voice behind him.

  Vince looked back over his shoulder and saw that the man held a small pistol. He started to whimper under his breath. The trapped feeling was coming over him again, starting from his stomach and spreading out with hot, twisting fingers.

  “You want me to shoot you?”

  Vince felt the gun banging against his leg as he ran.

  He saw the wall ahead of him.

  “Now, you’re caught!” said the man.

  Something filled Vince’s brain with night, because he wasn’t aware of what happened then. He didn’t even feel himself jerk the gun from the raincoat pocket. He hardly heard the explosions that almost coincided, that of his pistol and that of the man’s. He felt someone strike him on the arm and knock him off balance. That was all.

  Then he was looking at the scene as if he’d never seen it before. The man was writhing on the subway platform, blood gushing out of a great hole in his chest. Vince stared at him and then, as the man tried to raise his pistol again, Vince fired another bullet into him. The gun jolted in his hand and the sound deafened him.

  The man lay dead on the platform. Vince looked down, amazed at the smoke coming from the barrel of his gun. Almost repelled, he shoved the pistol into his pocket. He could feel himself shaking his head and murmuring something.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I mean it, I’m sorry.”

  Then the pain swept over him and he twitched violently. Looking down he saw blood running down the raincoat. He tried to lift his left arm and gasped at the fiery pain. His mouth fell open and a moan of fright filled his throat.

  “No,” he said. “No, no.”

  He looked incredulously at the man.

  “He—he shot me,” he said. He couldn’t believe it. The man had shot him, he’d hurt him.

  Then surprise and hurt flooded together into a hard hot lump of hate. He fumbled for his gun again. But his hand caught in the lining and he couldn’t get it out. Forgetting for a moment, he tried again to move his left hand.