Chapter 18
Judging only by the wildlife of cockroaches in the sink and pink-flamingo statuary cavorting on dead grass outside his window, Franny Futura had never imagined that squalor could be quite this tacky. He wept for the chipped furniture and the noise the plumbing made when residents on either side of his motel room used the toilet. Years ago, the cracked and dirty walls must have been painted a brighter hue; now they were the color of an aged salmon dying of natural causes.
Franny walked to the only window and looked through a hole in the curtains. He counted the flamingos. One pink plaster bird might have been considered kitsch, an interesting statement. But this flock of four was a deliberate and frightening attempt at decor.
So this was New Jersey.
Nick had told him not to leave the room, but the telephone by the bed had no dial tone. He stared at the public booth on the other side of the parking lot, an upended glass coffin exposed to the traffic of a busy highway – a million pairs of eyes a minute.
It was dangerous to leave the room, or so Nick had said. Franny believed it, for he was always willing to be frightened at the least provocation. He had read somewhere that fear was a genetic thing, that some people were wired from birth to be less brave than others – not his fault.
But he was not a complete coward. In recent years, all civility had ended, and he had been heckled, hissed and booed by the crowds. There had been times when he feared they would rush the stage and pull him down. Yet he had always remained to finish his act, hands trembling and tears passing for flopsweat. And now he had traveled for thousands of miles, for years and years – for what?
If he could only get through to Emile St. John, everything would be all right. Emile would come to fetch him in a stretch limousine, and they would travel back to New York City, drinking good scotch from the limo bar and smoking Cuban cigars. Rehearsals could resume this afternoon.
He put one hand on the doorknob, then drew back, as if the metal had been hot to the touch. What was the worst thing that could happen to him? What was worse than the terror of anticipation? Well, Nick would be angry. And there was all that highway traffic – all those eyes on him.
Franny stood in front of the door, hands at his sides. Once, long ago, he had done a brave thing. Surely he could walk that stretch of parking lot to the phone booth.
He heard a metallic creak, footsteps stopping outside his door. A knock on the wood and then another. A key was working in the lock. The knob was turning. Franny was backing away, slow-stepping, falling, crawling to the wall.
When the door opened, a large woman in a uniform walked in, her arms full of fresh linens and towels. She gaped at Franny, perhaps surprised to see him huddled on the floor, hands covering his face – crying softly.
The building was surrounded by all the traffic noises of the busy midtown theater district, but not even the siren of a fire engine could permeate these walls. Soundproofing had been an important consideration in his selection of performance space. The gallows illusion would be ruined if the audience was distracted from the ticking of gears, the creaks of wood and the cries of the hanged man.
Emile St. John checked the apparatus one last time. Every rehearsal had gone smoothly. Oliver had gotten this one right.
He glanced at his wristwatch as he slipped on the handcuffs. His assistant was due back in a few minutes. He had hired the young man for the trait of compulsive punctuality.
Timing was everything.
Thirteen steps above him, the stage of the gallows was very small, only room enough to hang a man. The narrow platform had a ramshackle look about it, crooked lines and rough board that concealed an iron framework. Its appearance was tenuous, as though a child had slapped it together with a handful of rusty nails. Visually, the structure threatened to fall apart at the first breeze created by applause.
He walked up the steps, just as Max Candle had done so many times. His foot was heavier on the last step, so it would crack and break at the hinge. And now he stretched his leg to step up on the tiny elevated stage. Emile shifted his weight, and the entire structure wobbled with precisely six inches of tilt in the superbly engineered framework. Standing beneath the noose, he watched as the line began to lower, programmed by clockwork gears to cast its deadly falling shadow on the curtain behind him. When it was level with his head, the line moved back. So far the mechanism was working smoothly. Oliver had done a wonderful job calibrating the noose by Emile’s own height and mass. The metal arm of the hydraulic lift locked on the metal vest beneath his suit.
He slipped the cuff key in the lock. The rope began to pull and tighten; the noose was constricting under his chin, pulling, straining.
And now he heard the sound of splitting wood beneath his feet. His hands were still locked in the manacles. When the structure fell out beneath him, he did not float. He did not follow the well-rehearsed routine of removing the noose and descending by invisible steps to the stage below.
He dropped like a stone, a dead weight, and his still body turned slowly, twisting round and round at the end of the rope.
When Franny had fumbled the correct number of coins into the public telephone and finally connected with the theater, a young Frenchman’s voice answered the phone. It might have been Emile half a century ago.
„Oh, yes, Mr. Futura. I’m his assistant. I’ll fetch him right away.“ Franny listened to the sound of feet walking away from the telephone. And next he heard the young man’s screams.
Apparently, Nick had been right. Emile couldn’t help him anymore. Franny hung up the phone. The late-afternoon sun slanted across his contorted face wet with tears.
Outside the door of the lockup, NYPD was humming with new cases. Mallory sat at a square table scarred with water marks from soda cans and the carved initials of bored felons and cops. She was the orphan of the Special Crimes budget. Slope’s release of Richard Tree’s autopsy had killed every hope for additional manpower, and Heller was not available for any more tests or television shows. Her anger was exacerbated by the grinning man who stood between two uniformed officers.
„Prado, if I prove you put that arrow in the body, you’ll be prosecuted for mutilating a corpse – not great publicity for the festival. And then there’s your public relations firm. All those wealthy clients might decide to take a walk.“
„Ridiculous,“ said Prado. „All publicity is good. Do you mind if I start that rumor myself?“ He nodded toward the second-floor window overlooking the SoHo street. Reporters were milling on the sidewalk below, creating a litter of coffee cups and sandwich wrappers. Others were behind the fast-food truck, waiting in ambush. „I’ll give you a credit line if you like.“
Behind her, a moan came from the junkie on the floor of the wire cage.
„Hey, knock it off.“ Officer Hong brought his truncheon down hard on the wood frame, but failed to get the prisoner’s attention. „I think this guy’s gonna throw up again.“
Mallory looked over one shoulder and caught the eye of the boy huddled on the floor behind the wire. He was small and skinny and sick.
„Don’t piss me off,“ she said.
The junkie slumped against the wall and lowered his head to his chest She turned back to Prado. „I need your movements for Thanksgiving Day. Oliver’s nephew was still wearing a tux when I found the body in the platform. So I figure he died a few hours after the parade.“
„Franny went to the police station with Richard.“ Prado slung his coat on the table. Uninvited, he pulled up a chair and sat down. „He told the detectives how he rigged the crossbow stunt, and then they let the boy go. I wasn’t even there.“