The lower half of the front page held a publicity photograph of Edna
Mowry provided by the Rhinestone Palace. She was smiling, quite lovely.
The upper half of the page featured bold black headlines: BUTCHER KILLS
NUMBER 10 PSYCHIC PREDICTS MURDER At the corner he turned to the second
page and tried to read the story while waiting for the traffic light to
change. The wind stung his eyes and made them water.
It rattled the paper in his hands and made it impossible for him to
read.
He crossed the street and stepped into the sheltered entrance way of an
office building. His teeth still chattering from the cold, but free of
the wind, he read about Graham Harris and Manhattan at Midnight.
His name is Dwight, Harris had said.
The police already know him, Harris had said.
Christ! How could the son of a bitch possibly know so much?
Psychic powers? That was a lot of bullshit. There weren't such
things.
Were there?
Worried now, Bollinger walked to the corner, threw the newspaper into a
litter basket, hunched his shoulders against the wind, and hurried
toward the restaurant.
The Leopard, on Fiftieth Street near Second Avenue, was a charming
restaurant with only a handful of tables and excellent food. The dining
area was no larger than an average living room. A hideous display of
artificial flowers filled the center of the room, but that was the only
really outrageous element in a generally bland decor.
Billy was sitting at a choice table by the window. In an hour The
Leopard would be full of diners and noisy conversation. This early,
fifteen minutes or more before the executive lunch crowd could slip away
from conference rooms and desks, Billy was the only customer.
Bollinger sat opposite him. They shook hands and ordered drinks.
"Nasty weather," Billy said. His Southern accent was heavy.
"Yes." They stared at each other over the bud vase and single rose that
stood in the center of the table.
"Nasty news," Billy said at last.
"Yes.
"What do you think?"
"This Harris is incredible," Bollinger said.
"Dwight.... Nobody but me knows you by that name. He hasn't given them
much of a clue."
"My middle name's on all my records-on my employee file at the
department." Unfolding a linen napkin, Billy said, "They've got no
reason to believe the killer's a policeman."
"Harris told them they already knew the Butcher."
"They'll just suppose that he's someone they've already questioned."
Frowning, Bollinger said, "If he gives them one more bit of detail, one
more clue, I'm blown."
"I thought you didn't believe in psychics."
"I was wrong. You were right."
"Apology accepted," Billy said, smiling thinly.
"This Harris-can we reason with him?"
"No."
"He wouldn't understand ?"
"He's not one of us."
The waiter came with their drinks.
When they were alone again, Bollinger said, "I've never seen this
Harris. What does he look like?"
"I'll describe him to you later. Right now ... do you mind telling me
what you're going to do?"
Bollinger didn't have to think about that. Without hesitation he said,
"Kill him."
"Ah," Billy said softly.
"Objections?"
"Absolutely none."
"Good." Bollinger swallowed half of his drink. "Because I'd do it even
if you had objections."
The captain came to the table and asked if they would like to hear the
menu.
"Give us five minutes," Billy said. When the captain had gone, he said,
"When you've killed Harris, will you leave him like the Butcher would?"
"Why not?"
"Well the others have been women."
"This will confuse and upset them even more," Bollinger said.
"When will you do it?"
"Tonight." Billy said, "I don't think he lives alone."
"With his mother?" Bollinger asked sourly.
"No. I believe he lives with a woman."
"Young?"
"I would imagine so."
"Pretty?"
"He does seem to be a man of good taste."
"Well, that's just fine," Bollinger said.
"I thought you'd see it that way."
"A double-header," Bollinger said. "That just adds to the fun."
He grinned.
"Detective Preduski is on the line, Mr. Harris."
"I'll talk to him. Put him through. Hello?"
"Sorry to bother you, Graham. Can we be less formal than we've been?
May I call you Graham?"
"Sure."
"Please call me Ira.", "I'd be honored."
"You're very kind. I hope I didn't interrupt something."
"No.
"I know you're a busy man. Would you rather I called you back later? Or
would you like to call me back at your convenience?"
"You didn't interrupt. What is it you want?"
"You know that writing we found on the walls of the Mowry apartment?"
"Too clearly."
"Well, I've been trying to track down the source for the past few hours,
and-"
"You're still on duty at two in the afternoon?"
"No, no. I'm at home."
"Don't you ever sleep?"
"I wish I could. I haven't been able to sleep more than four or five
hours a day for the past twenty years. I'm probably ruining my health.
I know I am. But I've got this twisted brain. My head's full of
garbage, thousands of useless facts, and I can't stop thinking about
them. I keep picking at the damnedest things. Like the writing on the
walls at the Mowry apartment. I couldn't sleep for thinking about ' it.
"
"And you've come up with something?"
"Well, I told you last night the poetry rang a bell. 'Rintah roars and
shakes his fires in the burden'd air; Hungry clouds swag on the deep."
As soon as I saw it I said to myself, 'Ira, that's from something
William Blake wrote." You see, when I was in college for that one year,
my major was literature. I had to write a paper on Blake.
Twenty-five years ago. You see what I mean about garbage in my head? I
remember the most useless things. Anyway this morning I bought the
Erdman edition of Blake's poetry and prose. Sure enough, I found those
lines in 'The Argument," part of The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. Do
you know Blake?"
"I'm afraid not."
"He was a mystic and a psychic."
"Clairvoyant?"
"No. But with a psychic bent. He thought men had the power to be gods.
For an important part of his career he was a poet of chaos and
cataclysm-and yet he was fundamentally a table-pounding optimist. Now,
do you remember the line the Butcher printed on the bedroom door?
"Yes. 'A rope over an abyss."
"Do you have any idea what that's from?"
"None."
"Neither did I. My head is full of garbage. There's no room for
anything important. And I'm not a well educated man. Not well educated
at all. So I called a friend of mine, a professor in the Department of
English at Columbia. He didn't recognize the line either but he passed
it around to a few of his colleagues. One of them thought he knew it.
He got a concordance of the major philosophers and located the full
quotation. 'Man is rope stretched between the animal and the Superman-a
rope over an abyss."
"Who said it?"
"Hitler's favorite philosopher."
"Nietzsche."
"You know his work?"
In passing."
"He believed men could be gods-or at least that certain men could be
gods if their society allowed them to grow and exercise their powers. He
believed mankind was evolving toward godhood- You see, there's a
superficial resemblance between Blake and Nietzsche. That's why the
Butcher might quote both of them. But there's a problem, Graham."
"What's that?"
"Blake was an optimist all the way. Nietzsche was a raving pessimist.