— Oh, well, I don’t pretend to be an expert — but if you’ll give me an outline of how you’ve gone about it—
— Very simple. I saw him first in the subway, followed him to his office in town. Then perhaps I made a mistake. His office door had two names on it — Kazis and another. I wanted to find out which one was his, so I sent up a Western Union messenger with a message addressed to Kazis: the messenger boy came back and described him to me, and of course it was Kazis.
— I see. I don’t see anything wrong with that. I assume Kazis hadn’t seen you.
— Certainly not.
— And presumably the boy didn’t say who he brought the message from?
— No. You miss the point. It isn’t Kazis I’m thinking of, it’s the messenger. Don’t you see, in this novel, King Coffin, if ultimately my hero kills Kazis that messenger boy might remember the incident, remember the man who gave him the message — remember me. Of course, in the present instance it doesn’t matter, as naturally I don’t intend to commit any murder.
— Naturally!
— Naturally. But for the novel I want a foolproof method — do you understand? Unless you think this might be reasonably safe.
Toppan reflected, a little embarrassed, his eyes downcast.
— But I thought, in your novel, it didn’t matter if the hero was found out — that a part of the virtue of your pure murder would be in the very fact that—
— No. What I said was that in the circumstances it would have to be secret — only ideally could it be done with complete indifference to risks. For the purpose of my story, I want the detection itself completely foolproof.
— I see. Actually, there needn’t as a matter of fact be much risk in the way you did it. I suppose you didn’t sign any name?
— What do you think I am?
— Well then, assuming for the sake of argument that you eventually did kill Kazis, but not, say, for a month or two, the chances of your being found through the messenger boy would be practically nil. He’ll remember the episode of course, and tell about it, and give a fairly good description of you, especially as you happen to be of somewhat striking appearance, owing to your height, but that would hardly be enough to go on. You’d be safe as a church, as long as he didn’t happen to see you again — which you could easily avoid — or unless, of course, some other person or persons happened to have reasons to connect you with the crime: in which case you’d be brought before the messenger for identification. Without that, his mere description of the mysterious person as a tall man who wore a black velours hat would hardly be enough, would it?
— You think not?
— No.
Holding the green glass in his hand, he smiled down at Toppan, who smiled back. Toppan was on his guard: he must be on guard himself. The question about King Coffin’s indifference to discovery, for example, had not been quite ingenuous — or had it? But if Toppan was fascinated by the possibility, clearly he didn’t really believe in it: he speculated, he was a little frightened, but that was all.
You speak of other persons who might have reason to connect him — what do you mean?
Toppan laughed, drawing the dressing gown over his crossed knees.
— Why nothing special — it all depends.
— Depends on what!
— Well, to be frank, in the present case, assuming for the moment that you are King Coffin—
— You can assume as much as you like. It’s your own assumption, isn’t it?
— Of course. I mean, there’s myself. I know about it.
— Do you?
— Don’t I?
— You mean you’re an accessory before the fact?
— Oh, I could wriggle out of that!
— In other words, my hero had better not discuss it — even with those who share his views.
— Perhaps not, — there’s also Gerta.
— No — you can leave her out of it.
— Very well.
He crossed to the mantel, lifted the hat from the corner where it hung, looked inside it to see the maker’s mark, replaced it. Revolving his glass on the varnished ledge, he examined the delicate white flowers in the color-print, the cluster of rose-tinted lychee nuts, the blue-breasted birds. The bird not quite sufficiently stylized. Leaning closer to this, his back still turned to Toppan, he said:
— It’s a useful suggestion.… You know, I actually talked with him for ten minutes.
— Good Lord. How was that?
— Quite simple. In my message I asked him to ring me up — at a certain number — giving no name of course — and talked with him, pretending I wanted some work done. Discussed it with him, and told him I’d ring him again.
— And did you?
— Yes. At his house.
There was a pause, and as Toppan said nothing in reply to this, he turned and looked at him. His hand was over his eyes, his head was bowed a little forward. Perhaps he was tired — perhaps he was playing ’possum. The right foot, slippered, the veined instep showing below the green pajama leg, jigged up and down, mechanically, slightly, with the beating of his heart. Otherwise he was motionless. Looking down on him like this, one could see the white scalp through the disordered red hair: the hand across the forehead, by contrast, looked very living, very vital. Toppan’s consciousness was perhaps in his hand.
— But never mind that. Are you awake?
— Of course.
— What I want to know is, what can I do next.
While Toppan pondered this, kneading his forehead with his fingers, Ammen filled and lit his pipe: he watched Toppan over the flame, began to wonder whether the whole thing wasn’t a mistake, a miscalculation. Toppan was being a little too wary, and, as his diary had made clear, he perhaps now suspected a shade too much for comfort. He had begun to step out of his role as mere satellite, wanted to enjoy detecting the detective. If he and Gerta should now, as seemed not impossible, put their heads together—
— I said, what can I do next.
— It depends on what you want. And of course on how much you’ve already got. I take it you’ve already observed all that can be superficially observed—
— Yes. I know his daily habits, as I’ve told you, his clothes, his shoes, the papers he reads, the day he puts out the ash can, and so on. I know what he’s like. A thoroughly commonplace and somewhat conceited little person, a sort of unconvinced failure. Certainly nobody you’d want to waste five minutes with, otherwise. You ought to see the house, for instance — a dreary two-family thing, one of millions, you know without going into it exactly what it will be like — cheap carpets that look as if they’d been designed in vomit, bead curtains, a wallpaper in the bathroom meant to look like tiles, a mission clock, a gas log fire. But all this is general — I want now the specific. You understand? And of course without meeting him.
— Not so easy. But there might be ways—
— What.
— If you want to go into the house, you could pretend to be canvassing for something. There’d be a risk in it but not much — if you went in the daytime, which you would, you’d see only his wife, or whoever lives there, and even if—
— What.
— Even if in your supposed role as an eventual murderer you later kill her husband she would have, presumably, no special reason for connecting you with it, or even for recalling your visit.