Kate Maynard protested again when Crowley insisted on going in with her. “I have to get up early tomorrow, Harvey. My sister’s picking me up at nine.”
“Look.” he said. “I’m lonesome. Can’t you understand? I just want to sit around and talk a little while. I’m not in a hurry to sleep on a park bench. I got no place else to go.”
She hesitated before she put her key in the lock, but in the end alcohol overcame her natural caution. She said, “All right, Harvey. You come up with me for just a little while. I’ll give you enough money for a hotel tonight. And maybe I could inquire around about a job for you next week.” She lingered just a little longer in the doorway. Finally she said, “I guess it’s all right, really. I confess I’m a little afraid to go in alone. This is a co-op with no night man. And I’m alone in the house. My neighbors haven’t come back from their summer vacations yet. I can’t really flatter myself into believing you have designs on me.”
She opened the door to him.
Crowley walked through it stiffly, his fists clenched tight, hardly daring to say anything. Now that the thing he’d brooded about all day was about to happen, he was like a lecher sweating out the last few minutes before his tryst with the woman he desires.
Kate’s apartment was on the second floor. The living room was large. It was furnished with traditional English pieces and it shone with polished wood and bright upholstery fabrics and brocaded damask drapes. Kate’s oils, in gold frames, hung on the walls. There were still lifes, landscapes, a portrait or two done with sure brush work and a competent sense of balance. It wasn’t like Moira’s place had been at all, Crowley thought. Moira had gone in for that low-slung modernistic stuff, a lot of divans and ottomans and coffee tables a foot or so off the floor, and her walls had been decorated mainly by pictures of naked young men with bulging muscles.
Crowley stood quite still in the middle of the room. Kate Maynard took off the hat with the jaunty feather and tossed it carelessly on a divan. “I’ve had it,” she said. “No nightcaps for me. I don’t have any beer, but there’s Scotch and gin and stuff if you need a drink.”
“I never drink hard liquor,” Crowley told her. “I got to take care of my body.”
Kate regarded him quizzically. “Yes,” she said thoughtfully, “I guess your body is important to you. It’s about the only thing you’re proud of, isn’t it?” When Crowley didn’t answer, she said, “There might be something in the ice box if you’re hungry.”
“I’ll have a glass of milk,” Crowley said. “It’s not good for the stomach to eat late at night.”
He wanted to get the woman out of the room so he could appraise any portable assets that might be lying around. There was a silver table lighter that might be worth something and a gold-mounted desk set, he noted hurriedly. He was opening one of the desk drawers and looking for a bankbook when Kate came into the room.
Kate set the glass of milk down on a library table. She said, “Look here, I don’t like people prying into my things. What are you looking for?”
Crowley turned slowly toward her. “That’s too bad,” he said. “Now let’s get down to it. Why’d you bring me up here? You didn’t just want to watch me drink milk, did you, sweetheart?” He moved toward her deliberately, grinning. “I want some money, Katie. I want all you’ve got in that fancy handbag. And I want what you’ve got hid around the house, too. You better be a sweet girl and give it to me, Katie, or I might get nasty. If I got to look for it, I might wreck the joint.”
Kate stood her ground. She said, “You told me you wanted to talk a while. That’s why I brought you here. I was lonesome myself, I guess, and I was trying to be kind. You’d better get out now. I won’t give you any money.”
Crowley was moving slowly toward the woman, still grinning. His eyes were slitted and crazy and, most terrifyingly, he had begun to sing, very softly, the same song the street musicians had played at the Village bar.
Jesus, he thought. This is the one. This is the one I’ve been waiting for. I always knew I’d kill one of them some day. This is the one. I’m going to kill you, Katie.
Kate stood still, gaping at Crowley, fascinated by the panther grace, the mad and evil look on his face and the song he was singing.
Oh, sweet Jesus, this is good, thought Crowley. She’s the one. She’s the one I’ve been waiting for all my life. I’m going to kill you with my fists, Katie. I’m going to show you how a real man kills. He doesn’t need a gun. I’m going to smash and break and keep on pounding until you’re dead.
Crowley was a couple of feet from Kate now, and Kate didn’t back away. Crowley’s left flew straight and hard like a mallet that is hurled. Kate’s harlequin glasses flew off and shattered against a television console. She staggered back, almost fell, braced herself against a heavy table. Crowley had begun to laugh. His laughter was a treble giggle like a girl’s.
Amazingly, Kate Maynard fought back. None of the other women had fought back. But Kate hurled her frail body forward, her small fists flailing ridiculously against Crowley’s solid body.
It didn’t do her any good, of course.
Crowley simply ignored her blows. Crowley was busy.
Finally he sank into a chair, looking down at her, entranced.
He said aloud, “You see, Katie? I didn’t need a gun.”
But Kate Maynard didn’t hear. Kate had been dead for quite a while.
6.
There was nearly a hundred dollars in Kate’s alligator bag. Kate hadn’t wised up like the others. She carried her cash right on her. Crowley had some trouble getting the rings off Kate’s fingers. He took Kate’s wrist watch and the silver lighter and the gold-mounted desk set and a gold pencil and a jeweled cigarette case. Then he searched the apartment thoroughly. In an envelope, hidden beneath a pile of lingerie in one of Kate’s dresser drawers, he found another sixty dollars, all in fives, and two diamond rings.
Then he went into the bathroom to wash up. He let the cold water run over his bleeding knuckles for a long time. There wasn’t any hurry. He felt as calm and relaxed as a man could feel.
Crowley was closing the door when he remembered something. He re-entered the apartment and drank the glass of milk that was still sitting on the table.
He always had a glass of milk before he went to bed.
It made him sleep good.
7.
When Crowley hit the street he started walking west, looking for a taxi. The knuckles of his right hand were beginning to bleed again, and he took out his handkerchief and wrapped it around them. The knuckles of his left hand were swollen and raw, but the bleeding had stopped.
He had walked almost a block when the police car came by. It crawled past him, and Crowley looked after it and laughed softly. The bastards, he thought. You take their guns away from them and they wouldn’t know what the hell to do. They’d kill you with a gun fast enough, but they’d never have the guts to beat you to death with their fists.
The police car slowed, then drew to the curb and stopped.
Crowley kept walking, but there was tightness in his chest now, as if he’d run too long and too fast. As he came abreast of the police car, one of the patrolmen got out and moved toward him.