Intimate Victims

Vin Packer

• Éditeur: Prologue Books
• Année: 2011
• ISBN:
  9781440537011
• Sujet: Letteratura
• Sous-sujet: Letteratura poliziesca e gialli

Somehow he'd ended up with someone else's coat... and that act could end Robert Bowser's life before it started.His hand trembled as he answered the phone.''Mr. Bowser?''''Yes.''''Mr. Bowser, my name is Harvey Plangman.''''Yes, Mr. Plangman. I have your wallet, and jacket, too, I believe.''''And I have yours.''''Why don't you drive over here? I could offer you a drink and we could reclaim our things.''''Mr. Bowser, were you planning on going to Brazil?''Was this really how the world ended?''You don't have anything to be afraid of, Mr. Bowser.''''I'd better come there.''''Yes, I think it would be better if you came here. You'll know who I am all right, Mr. Bowser. I'm wearing your coat...

TWELVE

RAYMOND BATTLE had arrived at Mrs. Carson’s early. Her mother, Mrs. Hill, had gone hours ago to St. Louis, and the children, Chrissy and Carla, were already tucked in bed. It was quarter to eight by Raymond Battle’s wristwatch. Time enough for a few amenities before Mrs. Carson left and Raymond began his chore of baby-sitting.

“Ah! You’ve added a desk up here, I see,” said he, as young Mrs. Carson came from the bedroom to the living room. She was wearing a light blue skirt and a white sweater, with light blue Keds and no stockings. Her hair was a fiery red, and she had many freckles, a round sort of pretty baby-girl face, and a small but very well-developed figure. She certainly did not look like the mother of two children, but more like one of the new freshmen at the University. She was throwing things into a tan leather shoulder bag, murmuring to herself, “… my lipstick, my pencil, my compact, my saccharine, my hay fever pills …"

Again, Raymond Battle said, “You’ve added a desk up here, I see.”

“It’s all right, isn’t it?” She took a wad of Kleenex from her bag and blew her nose, then rushed across to a table where a pair of pearl earrings were resting. Hurriedly, she screwed them on her lobes, saying, “It was my husband’s mother’s desk. It’s a Governor Win-something. I don’t remember. Not an original, natch.”

“A Governor Winthrop,” said Raymond Battle, wishing she would stand still for a moment and behave politely. After all, he was doing her a favor. He was certainly not going to accept payment for this chore.

He said, “These fall-front desks are called that. They’re patterned after the fall-fronts from the Chippendale period, only their name is a misnomer.”

She was nodding her head, but her attention was fixed on her change purse, which she was pushing through with her finger, counting to herself.

Raymond Battle walked closer and spoke louder, peeved at her disinterest. She behaved like a spoiled child. “You see,” he said, “although there were several governors named Winthrop, they all lived a good century before this type desk came into existence.”

His voice, his nearness, had forced her to give him her attention. She fidgeted, looked at him with very vacant blue eyes.

He sighed and turned away, and she said, “The children should sleep right through, Mr. Battle. They didn’t have naps this afternoon, natch.”

He was slightly surprised at himself for remembering that little bit about eighteenth century furniture; he had really never been very interested. Everything he knew he had picked up from Margaret’s talk, and he had always had the idea that he never listened to anything Margaret had to say on the subject — but there you were, he had. With such a good opportunity for conversation with a relative stranger, he was disappointed to find it thrust back at him, as though it were a boomerang, he had thrown out.

Mrs. Carson said, “Chrissy whimpers in her sleep. It doesn’t mean anything. She’s the baby, the two year-old.”

Mrs. Carson was standing at the mirror in the living room now, fluffing up the sides of her short feather-cut hairdo with the palms of her hands. “There’s some kind of wine there in the decanter on the table,” she said. “I don’t know what it is. I don’t drink much. It’s Mother’s, but help yourself …"

“Oh, no, thank you,” said Raymond Battle. “I’m going to write a letter. Probably watch television.” “Well, help yourself to anything you want.” “Thank you.”

She turned around and their eyes met again. Her way of looking at him annoyed him — it was so much a way of not looking at him. He had no interest whatsoever in this person, and for that reason she irked him all the more — the very fact that she had imposed on him, and then could not even go through the simple social motions of attentive discourse or the gestures of a smile, or an expression of receptivity when he spoke. Before he knew it, she was out the door. Her footsteps on the stairs were every bit as self-concerned as she was, banging and important and rushing.

Raymond Battle was glad she was gone. His impulse earlier this afternoon, to talk with someone, was gone along with Mrs. Carson. There was no one worth talking with. On his way to Apartment 3, Battle had a brief encounter with Professor Bullard, who was going down the stairs as Battle was going up. They met on the landing. Raymond inquired, “And how are you, Professor?” to which the old man nodded, unsmiling — as seemed to be the custom at 702. Raymond had then said, “There’s a runner loose on the stairs, about the third step. I’ll fix it, but be careful as you go down.” And Bullard’s response? Not even waiting to hear the end of the sentence, Bullard clattered down the stairs reciting Shakespeare in a loud voice: “I am amaz’d, methinks, and lose my way, Among the thorns and dangers of this world.” He bounced off the bottom step crying, “King John, Act Four!” He was out of the house without so much as a thank-you-for-the-warning to Raymond Battle.

Battle settled himself at the imitation Governor Winthrop, brought out his stationery box and ball point pen, and spread the equipment in front of him. He had an hour before the English mystery movie on television, and he lit his pipe (he was still new at it, still had difficulty keeping the pipe going) and began his letter.

Dear Plangman,

He sat back, gave four or five quick sucks on the pipe stem, then leaned forward and began with a determined air.

I am up here on 3, baby-sitting for a most annoying individual. I would guess she is no more than twenty-three or twenty-four — a redhead, with none of the volatile or tempestuous qualities redheads are alleged to have, but in their place, a vacantness. This is particularly evidenced by her way of looking at you. It’s as though she’s off somewhere in a very unexciting place. You know, of course, the expression “looking right through you.” It’s that. I suppose you would call her pretty; she has all the physical qualities that earn the adjective — but her inability to be present spiritually, at the same time her body is physically present, makes her more like some store window mannequin — worse, an animated one. One who says “natch!” for “naturally” and who suffers from hay fever and is dressed as a bobby-soxer. So much for that, I have already exaggerated her importance by devoting a paragraph to her.

You mention that you would like to serve the Cutlers something simple but unusual. Was “chic” the word you used? There’s a very common Roman pasta dish which Margaret used to make occasionally on Thursday nights, way back in the beginning of our marriage. We had tasted the dish in Rome (it’s everyday fare there) and Margaret had added a few improvisations of her own. I’ll give it to you with her improvisations … It’s called spaghetti alla carbonara

1. Fry bacon while you are boiling the wafer for spaghetti.

2. To the bacon, after it is fried, add ground pepper and a few dashes of sage.

3. Place the cooked spaghetti (plain) on a plate. Add the bacon-sage mixture. On top of that add lots of grated Parmesan cheese.

4. Top with a raw egg yolk.

5. Serve as is, leaving it to the individual to stir it all together.

Serve it with a green salad and a bottle of red wine. I think …”

At this point, Raymond Battle heard a banging in the bedroom. He dropped his pen and rushed into that room. He was confronted by the sight of the two year-old in her crib, on her knees, with her eyes closed, banging her head against the wooden headboard.

“Here, here,” he said, bewildered and awkward, as he turned the child over on her back. “Go to sleep!” he said, ridiculously, because she was already fast asleep. Her thumb went to her mouth, and Raymond snapped off the overhead light, just as the child in the bed across the room from the crib, murmured “Nighty, Mum!”

Feebly, Raymond whispered, “Nighty.”

He shut the door, uncertain about the whole thing. What on earth was the baby doing hitting her head...