FRANNY FRANCIS FRANCE strolled about one bumbling and bright beautiful day with a small and powerful joy beaming in her breast, headed nowhere in particular and her head everywhere in wild transports. The sky was bright and blue, the air was vivid, the sun followed her warm face with a strong, invisible brightness where no clouds clipped the top of the trees. The city around her was alive with the chatter of people, the deep smoky scents of restaurants and automobiles and the energy of life. The colors asserted themselves in bright rich tones, blue, gray, red and copper-ebony Franny marched down these colorful streets thinking upon whatever her thoughts might care to concern. She thought about her friend Rebecca, she thought about the very strange people that she passed, but most of all she thought about herself. She thought about herself, her thoughts, her thoughts on her thoughts and chased them around each other. She thought of herself a bird, singing, feathers freeing themselves from her feathery wings, herself, divorced from time and space and everything like a misplaced Red Riding Hood. She thought of the magnificent stars beyond the flat illusion of the sky and of all the different indistinct memories of words she might have or maybe did say to Rebecca and of her body, her own body as well, the soft living flesh beneath the wonderful chilly clothes she was wearing. She thought of childhood, her own and all those others she was, like a child, free to create, and beneath the weight of the world so vast it lifted itself light in a laughing vaporous sigh she felt her happiness like a gentle transformation of so many bright opposites. She thought of girls along crowded beaches, their youth, the fall, and oh, of course- the city!

The city passed all around Francis while she was engaged in this rapture of thoughtless thought, and it was fueling the fires of her bizarre imagination, though she couldn’t have said why, even if she realized it at all. On one side of her gray old buildings did battle with new gray buildings, the final triumphs being lost blue above the sky while bells, obscure and loud sang hymns around her head and while strangers seemed to step by in their awful and unnatural rhythm. Here, on the other side of the street where the busy stands of fruit dropped color against the gray in clusters of spheres like large suspended snowflakes of red, orange, deep blues and green, voices bounced carelessly around, racing toward all the magnificent structures and running up the towers, back and forth between buildings like artillery. The meanwhile sun looked from between the buildings and the clouds they clipped with a kind of curiosity, delighted by this spectacle it witnessed day after day after day. There were children. They strolled by, visionaries, you could see it in their faces, that they carried some secret pact with the moment, as if they’d learned to stretch it out to infinity on all sides, while their happy mothers and/or fathers held onto them like precious ancient texts, these conquerors of linguists. A thousand different deep and wonderful scents scented the air from restaurants, perfume, automobile exhaust, the delicious smell of fruit and the smell of the fall, crisp and colorful. And then like the progression of scenes in a play, the setting dropped off and a new one appeared in its place, where the streets were wide and sparse, decrepit old buildings looked out on the broken vistas like tired old men. Franny looked around awfully impressed while the sidewalk pushed back up upon her heels. More rapidly now the backdrops were falling away and then recreating themselves, sometimes into small and quaint squares or circles of shops and people, and sometimes into wide run-down alleys. Passing past these relics and settings, all at once the city seemed to draw very far back all around her, and she found herself crossing a long bridge where pale blue waters laughed light back onto the sun and the sky. Far away, all around her the city rose up, all encompassing, like a womb, and Francis felt a tremendous smallness, and a sudden security.

#

There was an old man named Freehand Fred,
He’d drink whisky all night ‘til he seemed most dead,
Used to dream of Sweden and he used to dream of France,
And he used to dream a gal called Betty Aintgotsense.

Now I’m told old Betty was as foolish as he,
They’d drink whisky all night at the jamboree,
Start to cursin’ and a’swearin’ ‘til the break of dawn,
And by the time they got to kissin’ ol’ Betty was gone.

Ralph

I used to dream of other places and I found an intimate and impassive city. Often, on nights very much like this one, alone, removed around others, I watched a vibrant life that refused to embrace me. For almost a year I was invisible, a young medical student driven during the frigid daytimes into a neurotic pursuit of my academia, and at night a rebel against this blissful sadness, haunting strange centers of this city that haunted me. It culminated into a sort of madness. One evening, drinking heavily, and certain of my superiority over all these others who would not regard me, I began to insult everyone. I threw over my table and was raging. It was all nonsense. But I was dragged that night out into an alley, and beaten into a permanent hermit.

Do you remember that night we attended a lively swing party aboard one of those boats in the Baltimore Harbor? It was terrific fun- we’d both been drinking like sailors, and there was that fellow who continually cut in while we were dancing and took you away and I got angry and we almost had a fight on our hands he was threatening to throw me overboard and I said not if I threw him over first or the charming morning when we watched that outdoor performance of some or other Shakespeare comedy and you gave me a little purple flower you pulled and I tied it into my laces and you said I looked silly and refused to walk next to me or those evenings when I used to walk over to your house and you would smile and take my coat asking me did I want some hot mint tea and it was too delightful to say no although I can’t stand hot mint tea and I would try and teach you chess and the night you got frustrated and upset the whole board- Cass, these memories are as delicious as my perpetual solitude- in these always vacant hours of my todays at the end of the day you are

#

“Ralph, are you dozing off on me?”
“No; no I’m awake.”
“Ralph, do you remember me?”
Ralph put down the letters and looked across the desk.
“I’m sorry Cass,” he said, “but you came so late.”
Cass stood up and crossed the room, her back towards him, looking out the window. “Ralph, I need your help.”
“Anything,” Ralph said.
Cass moved away from the window and walked over to the stereo. “It’s vinyl.”
“I was feeling nostalgic. It’s from when I was much younger.”
“I suppose so.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Cass shrugged and turned to face him.
“An old friend of mine anyway.”
“Is that right?”
Brief pause. “Cass, what’s wrong?”
She sat down on the floor, her back propped up against the wall. “It’s about an old friend of mine.”
“Yes, and-?”
“She was murdered.”

#

Rebecca had been
very bitter and very cold, aloof, her
one joy had been
photography, she had loved to watch
people, study them in
the hurried moments, intent,
pressed, not at all self-conscious, involved
in lives that made them happy,
anxious, worried, depressed, moments arose
out of these photographs
and created a world and
Rebecca loved the world, she
even began to love people, especially
when she lost Richard and all at once
important fragments of her life began to break apart, the days
the lights were blue through her windows and ever more increasingly she became very much a stranger to herself and learned to love herself all the more because she found herself increasingly dissatisfied with herself, she became narcissistic, self-involved, involved with another girl when she had no such inclinations and could feel no romantic love towards her, and so all her love for people, for herself, for moments and for the world became twisted, strange, observant and silent, and Rebecca had become very bitter and very cold, aloof. She’d often thought herself no more than some oblique symbol in the lives of various people she’d been involved with. She started to spend most of her time alone, and eventually she began to enjoy it. She’d pace through the wooden rooms of her small downtown apartment, the dim light made more dim through the blinds, while all around her, always inescapable, the city thrived. The sounds invaded her windows, the people she loved invaded her hours and the time passed out there- and she was always sensing it. The place was like a tomb, and she felt like a spirit no one chose to believe in. Like a series of her own photographs it began to recreate itself still: the dark brown hallway, a table, square, wooden, small, a mirror, the lamp. The planks on the floor always more and more sensitive into the wide and empty living room as silent as tombs. Beyond this room cluttered with relics, books, pictures, photographs, a small coffee table and a couch was the darkroom, a room Rebecca seldom visited. On the other side, back through past the living room, the hallway, the kitchen was small, messy, dark and almost always unattended. Two small windows barred by blinds looked out onto the city, although more often than not they didn’t look outwards at all, and the little light the blinds allowed sank into a pale white pool on the floor. A short distance from these windows, three other windows looked just as dismally inward, and behind these large and vacant square eyes, Rebecca’s bedroom, depressed in tones of red, brown and violet, spread itself around her, because this was where she spent most of her time: on her bed, sitting on the floor in revolutionary silence, Rebecca would talk to herself. She didn’t work. She sold old photographs and received royalties off of old photographs and supported a young lady named Francis Williams, whose presence had been, if anything could have been called such, her sole pleasure in life. Francis, a photograph could stand, sit or usually pace in front of her for hours. Her copper-ebony skin, her brown eyes and her dark clothes complemented the color and light of Rebecca’s apartment.

Francis loved to talk; and so Rebecca relied on Francis, her constant appearances and disappearances.

Nights without Francis the apartment sat suspended on itself, bathing over and over again in the silent melodious sadness. Sitting on the floor, helpless, like someone buried alive in a large, ancient tomb, while the hallway, the living room, the kitchen, the darkroom and even the bathroom all spoke to each other with dark cool passages of air drafting through the blind windows, Rebecca, inside herself, talked to herself, while in her bedroom the heavy violet bed, the lamp, the dim green shade, the dark oak night table, the floor and the rug all sat perfectly still, listening.

The Detective

“I am above all else,” said Inspector Bridge, puffing leisurely upon his pipe and looking across the room through enormous blue rings of smoke, “a man of reason and observation; although when the moment calls for action I never, like a Hamlet or John-a-Dreams shy away from my duty. It is because of the happy meeting of these two qualities that I am perhaps the world’s greatest living Private Investigator. But tell me Clyde, you heard what they had to say as well, listening over the speakerphone. What do you make of our two latest interests?”

I had been pondering this very subject for the last quarter hour while Bridge had been going over various topics, not one of which I had the presence of mind to listen to. Now he was challenging me prematurely for my conclusions. I had none to offer.

“It’s clear to me that it has been occupying your mind from the moment I hung up the phone. Certainly you’ve come up with something.”

“I don’t know where to begin,” I said. “I’ve always stood somewhat in awe of your methods, and I never know how to piece them together. You must forgive me, but I really have no conclusions to offer you.”

We were sitting in a small downtown office that belonged to Bridge. Bridge had worked for many years as a police detective, but it was a job that he hated. He said it was unbearable dealing with the inconsistencies, hypocrisies and ineptitudes of the police force. He saved a good portion of money over the years and finally opened his own Private Investigation practice. He himself was its sole employee. That meant working almost all waking hours, but he’d learned not to trust most other people. I helped him out with some of the paperwork and data entry when I had the time, and I enjoyed accompanying him when he was out working on a case; but most of my time was devoted to my own occupation as an art restorer.

Bridge's office was small and very cluttered. There were books, papers, two computers, a typewriter and a litter of other miscellaneous items scattered around. The walls were undecorated, the light was harsh and white and his desk was large and metal. A glass storefront let in a lot of sunlight, and he often didn't bother to turn on the overhead light until it was absolutely necessary.

"I find it disappointing," Bridge said, standing up and beginning to pace, "that for as long as you've been working with me you haven't been able to pick up on any of my methods. But really I suppose the fault is mine. I’ve never given you a formal explication of them. I shall do so now, while we wait for our guests to arrive. But first off, let me tell you something about these very guests so you won’t be distracted by questions during my lecture. Obviously we know, because we heard them speaking, that one is a man and the other is a woman. These two were once lovers, they are so no more. They have not seen each other for quite some time. Someone very close to them- let me say to one of them, has either been murdered or has disappeared. I am certain of this, despite the fact that they refused to give any details over the phone."

"But how can you be sure?" I asked.

"They said as much themselves. There are more facts that I suspect I know, but I will not put them forth, for they are uncertain. But listen closely to me now, while I go over with you my methods, and when they arrive, try to put what you’ve learned to practice. You will find it surprisingly simple to observe many details of their lives."

"I shall try."

"Then follow me closely Clyde. This simple little problem I’m about to begin you with gives good example of the error that leads many people, when trying to reason, astray:

“Three people check into a hotel. Let us say they are charged thirty dollars. Each one of them pays ten, and they go upstairs and check in. A few minutes later the hotel clerk realizes he charged them five dollars too much, and sends the bellboy up to return it. The bellboy goes to do so, but he can't figure out how to split five dollars even three ways, so he pockets two of the dollars and gives each of the men one dollar back. That means that each man spent nine dollars on the room, a total of twenty seven. There remains the two dollars that the bellboy kept for himself, which makes twenty nine dollars. Where is the other dollar?"

I sat a moment looking at my friend perplexed.

"Do not struggle with it," Bridge said, continuing to pace. "I would rather you focused your attention on my following discourse. If you’re still interested, and if the answer hasn’t made itself obvious to you by the time I finish, I will explain it to you then. For now, listen to me:

"Every good detective is first and foremost a philosopher. That may seem strange to you, but you must realize that both of these professions demand, as their primary tool, a discerning and analytical method of reasoning.

"To my mind it was Aristotle who first really penetrated the intricacies of the art. It can be argued that Socrates or his disciple Plato developed an intricate system of reasoning before Aristotle, but again, to my mind, the dialectic process employed by these two only points toward a system; a system which is fully revealed in the works of Aristotle." Bridge paused in his pacing, and lighting his pipe anew, threw his gaze at me. He stood tall and slender in the sunlight, clouds of smoke running lazy blue around him. His eyes, harsh and bright, burned with an ecstatic blue fire gazing fixedly above where his nose jutted out like the beak of a hawk.

"That system," he continued, "is the syllogism. Now for Aristotle, logic allows for two basic methods of applied reasoning. Those methods are deduction and induction. Deduction is the logic applicable to the syllogism. Now a perfect syllogism is laid out in such a manner that when three propositions have been laid down, the first two propositions being givens, or premises as they are often called, the third proposition will logically follow."

"And how," I asked, "do you mean logically follow?"

"Let me give you an example: if it is fair for me to say that all divine creatures partake of reason, and it is also fair for me to say that Man partakes of reason, does it not follow, by the Law of Identity, that Man is a divine creature?"

"I suppose so, and I think I am understanding better already."

"No it does not, and I had hoped you would consider that syllogism more carefully."

"How do you mean?"

"In that syllogism, is it not possible that other creatures besides divine ones partake of reason, and that man is one of those creatures? It is over-hasty to jump to the conclusion that you did. However, if the syllogism goes as such: all creatures that partake of reason are divine, Man partakes of reason, therefore Man is divine, then the syllogism is fair."

"Ah, but you are trying to trick me again, am I wrong? For how do we know that Man is a creature? I wasn’t over-hasty this time; I was clever. You see, I’m learning already."

"What?" Bridge stopped short, confused, and suddenly grasping the misunderstanding, flew into a rage. "You are impossible! How dare you laugh at-" and turning away again he became calm. "But I suppose you are right, eh? I should have said Man is a creature that partakes of reason, and made the distinction clear right then and there."

"Yes."

"But it is a question more than anything, of grouping. I suppose you’ve heard of a Venn diagram?"

"I don't believe I have."

"It’s not important, and I believe the mind is more astute if one learns to reason without such aids. But the syllogism becomes more complicated. There is negation. For example if I should say, horses are not creatures that reason, and I also say, Man is a creature that reasons, it follows that a man cannot be a horse."

I paused to consider. "Yes, naturally."

"And so on," Bridge continued, waving his hand in the air. "The syllogism, as you see, can be a very powerful tool for the analytically deductive mind. But there is one very strong problem with it, and this is evidenced in the work of a much later philosopher by the name of Sir Francis Bacon."

"Yes, I’ve heard of him. It’s said that he wrote many of Shakespeare's plays."

"It is not Clyde," sighed Bridge, "such inanities as that are important about him. If Bacon was at all interested in theater, it was the theater that philosophy, in his mind, had become, primarily because of the works of Aristotle. He believed that philosophers were simply choosing systems to believe in based on their own disposition, and developing clever ways to support these systems through Aristotelian logic. Bacon's response was to do away with the syllogism and focus on that other method of reasoning, namely induction."

Here Bridge became more animated, his eyes gazing straight ahead, his pace quickened, and his puffs upon his pipe doubled. "Aristotle's induction was puerile at best, always upset by unforeseen contradictions, and not very thoroughly developed. It seems clear why his focus was on the syllogism. Bacon on the other hand developed a system of induction that analyzes experience, and through a rigorous process of exclusion and rejection, arrives at an inevitable conclusion. And what is his greatest new tool? It is the experiment, something important to both the philosopher and the detective. Indeed, this method developed by Bacon is considered the basis for the modern scientific method."

"But I’m still lost. I don't know how to apply anything I've learned here to philosophy, and especially not to private investigation."

"That is simply a matter of reading the works these men wrote, and then putting the habit of logic to practice. But I myself do not rest where these two masters left off. I have developed my own system of reasoning that is more suited to my occupation. In my mind, reasoning is largely a matter of determining where one's goals are, and the best method to attain them."

"Yes, but how does one reason which method of reason one should use?"

"That is a good question, and I can see already that my training has made your mind somewhat more analytical and astute. There is, I believe, a quality of Intuition, which is spoken of by another philosopher who wrote just slightly after Bacon. You have heard of him; it is Rene Descartes."

"I think therefore I am."

"Yes. Cogito ergo sum. Descartes tried to develop a pure scientific deduction. He had a brilliant and extraordinarily analytical mind; he developed the basis for our modern geometry, and starting with the premise that he could premise nothing, began the Herculean task of recreating the entire world. I do not have very much to say about this method however, because it seems to me that he can do nothing that is absolutely certain save posit his own existence, which, in any case, he would have no choice but to do anyway. For how absurd would it sound if I, who am speaking to you now and who beyond doubt in all reality exists, were to posit to you that I had reasoned it out that I did not exist, as if I were no more than a character in a book?

"But Descartes' idea of intuition, or clear and distinct knowledge, deserves a lot of attention. His cogito ergo sum is due to intuition. So is knowing that we are awake. Often when we dream everything seems so real to us that we believe it to be so, even when logic starts to bend in upon itself. But when we are truly awake we have more than just the emotions we carry with us into our dreamworld scenarios, and the belief that we are truly experiencing these scenarios, we have a clear and distinct knowledge that we are awake. Moreover, our world stays subject to certain laws of nature and logic, which is certainly not true of the dreamworld. And most importantly, there is a continuity that exists when we are awake which does not exist for our dreamt lives."

"You sound as if you are trying to convince yourself and not me."

Bridge's face colored slightly. "Don't be ridiculous. All this talk of mine has allowed you to believe you could put my methods to use prematurely. I was merely reciting it the way Descartes writes it. But tell me my astute friend, have you worked out that little brain-teaser I gave you earlier? I'm afraid I've given you little time to concentrate on it."

"I have not, Bridge. And I must admit that it distracted me at times during your discussion."

"Well the answer is simple. In their haste (as you did with the first syllogism that I presented you with) people have a tendency to group things together in the wrong place, and therefore become entangled in logical whirlpools. Listen: while it is true that each man paid twenty seven dollars, the two dollars that the bellboy pocketed were a part of that twenty seven. Twenty five are with the manager, three are with the men, and two are with the bellboy. Quite simply, no money is missing."

"I hadn't thought of it in that way. It really is simple."

"Yes it is, and remember this lesson. You will have a chance to apply it now, for if I am not mistaken, here come the two people who contacted us earlier."

#

A Washingtonian, a Bostonian, a New Yorker and a Man from Chicago sat around a table one night drinking whisky and playing cards. They were in a medium sized kitchen somewhere downtown, a couple of old friends from college getting together for some drinking, gaming and conversation. A single lamp cast a dull orange brown glow over the white kitchen, and through the open window a cold breeze rushed through with the sounds of the city while the radiator hissed back a steady, monotone warm steam of air. The table was small, round and wooden, the finish was scarred and the surface was badly scratched. A few glass ashtrays hung around the sides of the table, maybe one in the middle, smoke running upward from lit cigarettes left sitting in the ridges. A half-empty bottle of whisky sat near the center of the table, a little off to the side, in the area of the Bostonian. Cards were spread out face up, with a deck face down sitting somewhere nearby.

The Man from Chicago sat back in his chair looking bored and displeased.

“Well it looks like another hand for you,” he said, smoke rolling from up out of his nostrils. “I’m not sure what to make of that.” And he took another long sip from his glass.

“Don’t make nothin’ of it,” the New Yorker suggested, smiling slyly.

These men were not old but they were no longer young. They’d been talking of certain things, wherever the spirit of the night carried them, and they’d been through drinking, gaming, smoking, whoring and a whole list of other vices. The only thing left for them to talk about was murder.

“A long time ago,” the Man from Chicago said, “I killed a man for cheating at cards.”

The nervous looking New Yorker leaned forward; his eyes were light.

“Keep your cool,” the Man from Chicago said, lifting his hands into the air. “I’m not insinuating that you’ve been cheating at cards. I’m just telling a story.”

“Well go on with it then,” said the Bostonian.

“It was when I was a very young man, and I didn’t know any better,” the Man from Chicago began. “There was this fellow I knew from the suburbs. We grew up together. The two of us liked to get together and play cards, have a good time. The incident in question happened pretty soon after we all graduated, and I moved back home to Chicago. I met up with some of my old friends and he was one of them. A group of us used to get together on the weekends, just like we are now, do some drinking, talking and gaming. Something’d happened to him, though. Before I went away to school I couldn’t have pointed out to you a more stand up guy- now he was just another dirty bastard. We all knew he was cheating the cards, but none of us could prove it, and none of us could catch him. He thought what gave him the advantage was that we were all old friends. Most of the other guys wouldn’t even let themselves believe it- they didn’t want to lose faith in an old friend like that. It makes you a little older, friendship is sacred, you don’t fuck with it.”

“Well,” and the Man from Chicago paused, letting the smoke roll up from his nostrils again, and took a moment to finish his glass, lean over the table, take the bottle and pour himself another. He looked around at all the silent faces, took a good long sip, and continued:

“Well I’m not the kind to let anything pass me by, I don’t care who it is.” And his eyes caught the eyes of the New Yorker. “I knew what was going on, and I was determined to prove it. So at the end of one evening, a particularly successful night for my friend, I grabbed him by the collar and turned up his sleeves. Sure enough, a bunch of cards slipped out and fell onto the floor. He didn’t know what to say. He stood there gaping like a fish out of water. Everyone started screaming, and my blood got to boiling. The way that coward melted under the pressure made me hate him. When he started begging for mercy I lost my head; I took out my knife, and in a fit of rage I stabbed him in the neck. He died instantly.”

The Man from Chicago finished his story and the other three men looked around. No one said anything; there was a silence that hadn’t been present all evening

The Bostonian was the first to break the silence:

“It don’t do for us to be getting worked up over our friend’s story. He ain’t the only one among us that’s got a human life under his belt, and I’d be surprised if I’m not the only one besides him. But since we seem to be in the mood for sharing tonight,” and his voice fell, “I will tell you about how I killed my own old man.”

“There’s no need to tell stories that shouldn’t be told,” the Man from Chicago said.

“Or stories that are lies,” the little New Yorker added.

“It’s no lie,” the Bostonian continued. “And it’s time that the truth were told:

“When they found my father he’d been rolled up in a rug, shot twice in the head, and left in a city dumpster. No one could figure out who’d done it. All the law officials figured that it was a dealer on the black market, cuz they’d been trying to bust the old man for a while- never had anything on him. I was only fifteen then.” The Bostonian paused and looked around.

“I guess I thought I was pretty clever for getting away with it. The old man- he liked to drink. And when he drank he liked to beat up on me and my mother. He was a savage. No one ever said nothing- no one called the police- everyone in our neighborhood was afraid of him. Everyday was a nightmare. Well I decided at last that I’d have no more of that damn old man. I plotted it out real good: I stole one of the pistols from his drawer- I forced it open, and then I broke open the liquor cabinet, and left a trail, like I was drunk, and been spilling it all the way back to my room. I waited up, stayed up real late. I was lying in bed- in my room, all the lights were off. I just kept looking up at the ceiling and all these terrific shapes cast through the window by the moon. Sure enough that mean old bastard came barging in my room in the middle of the night screaming about my drinking up his liquor. He was so drunk he never knew what hit him. I heard him coming and hid behind the door. I wrapped a rug around his head, jammed the barrel up and fired twice. I could hardly keep the blood from spraying everywhere- I thought the rug would catch it all. I dragged him out the window that night, carried him a good mile or two, and tossed him in the dumpster. I cleaned up real good after, burned my clothes and everything. They never caught me. To this day don’t nobody know who killed him.”

The Bostonian poured himself another glass of whisky.

“Well that ain’t nothing,” the New Yorker decided. “I killed a man too, and there’s no reason to sit here like I’m ashamed of it, ‘cuz we’re all capable of it, and we all might do it again. Man that I killed wasn’t no relation to me. He didn’t cross me neither. He just plain was. He used to walk the same street as I did on my way home, my first job out of college. That damn guy- I don’t know what it was- I just didn’t like the look of him. He used to whistle sometimes too- some silly happy little song- I never could stand it. So one day I just got the thought in my head- what if I killed him? Well that was all it took. Him not being there anymore every day when I walked home, and only me knowing why. I had to do it. So I laid plans.

“I knew this guy’s route like the back of my hand, and I got to know it even better. There was almost nowhere he walked where he wasn’t safe- he was always in a large populated area. That was fine by me. I figured out a way to kill him in the public eye and walk away Scott-free. It all happened right in front of his apartment. See, I knew he had to call up to his wife every night to come throw him the keys. He’d shout, ‘Martha!’ and she’d shout, ‘Henry!’ and the keys would drop out the window. Well that was all I needed. I beat Henry by minutes to his apartment and shouted, ‘Martha!’ imitating him best I could, and standing out of eyeshot. A moment later the key came flying out the window onto the sidewalk. I let myself in and waited in the darkness of the foyer to the stairs. Here comes the real Henry, and I pull the door back slow, showing him that someone must’ve left it open. It’s happened before, so he thinks nothing of it. In he comes, and I tie a wire around his neck. I killed him with my bare hands. “ The New Yorker paused and looked around, drinking the contents of his glass all at once.

“So it ain’t no use talking about justice or morality. I killed that man ‘cuz I wanted to. I killed that man for fun.

“And what about you, eh? What’s your story?”

The New Yorker was addressing the Washingtonian who, up to this moment had been looking silently at each of his companions respectively as they told their stories.

“What’s my story?”

“Yeah,” the drunken New Yorker drawled. “Who have you killed?”

“I did kill someone once, but it was not like you all.”

“Just tell the damn story!” said the Bostonian

“Don’t be ashamed of your vices,” offered the Man from Chicago.

“Vice is a virtue,” added the New Yorker.

“Well I will tell you about it then, but it’s against my better judgment, and I’ve never told anyone this before. As you all know I was married once. Dear June was such a lovely girl, I don’t know if any of you ever met her. She was the ideal of Beauty herself, and wherever she went she spread that magic and charm that only Beauty can deliver. We were married very young, just after I left college, while you-,” he pointed to the New Yorker, “were killing innocent strangers,” and you,” he pointed to the Bostonian, “were suffering for your father’s murder and you,” he pointed to the Man from Chicago, “were killing people who slighted you.”

“Well,” said the New Yorker
“Well,” said the Bostonian.
“Well,” said the Man from Chicago, and they all three shrugged.

“Yes we were married, and I never believed what happiness could come to my life. She was perfect in every way- in every virtue, I’d met no one like her- that should be obvious because I only kept company with others like myself- namely, you gentlemen. Day to day I watched her bloom in beauty and virtue, and it changed me. I myself tried to attune myself to these mystical gifts, to these givers of peace and wisdom. Day after day I felt my joy grow with her, and in her, and I looked up to her as up to an Ideal- for she was nothing less.

“But a secret despair was growing in my heart: the more perfection I saw in her, the less I saw in myself. And never- not even once did she chide me for my shortcomings- so perfect was she- she only helped me, developed me, was patient.

“One spring morning we went for a quiet walk through the park. The traces of winter were just dying, and it was still a little chilly. She was holding onto me, talking such sweet things they don’t seem like a part of this world we’re trapped in. I listened to her with tenderness, but the despair was eating through me- I hated her, and loved her and hated her again. We were standing at the edge of a lake, shivering, she whispered she loved me, and I swung around, away from her. My movement was abrupt and she fell into the water. It was nothing, only a trifle- she even laughed, like a good lover should. But I didn’t laugh- I watched her- and said nothing.

“She couldn’t swim. I dragged her out just before she drowned and took her home. She contracted pneumonia. She didn’t have the strength to move, to walk, to do anything. I refused to get her help- to take her to the doctors. I watched her, day after day as she lay dying in my bed. Most of the time I wasn’t around, and when I was, I didn’t speak. I just watched her with love and with hatred as she tried to call out to me.

“She died, shivering beneath the cold weight of my impassive eyes. I called the coroner- a service was arranged. I duly paid my respects- and now here I am with you fellows, drinking whisky and playing cards. So as you see, while I have killed a person, it was not the kind of murder that you monsters are capable of.”

But there was a hush in that room which did not lift again all night.