Part 33 (1/2)

He left the car. He walked a third of a block, keeping to the shadows beyond the pools of light around the street lamps. With a quick backward glance to be sure he wasn't observed, he stepped into a narrow pa.s.sageway between two elegant townhouses.

The roofless walkway ended in a blank wall, but there were high gates on both sides. He stopped in front of the gate on his left.

Snowflakes eddied gently in the still night air. The wind did not reach down here, but its fierce voice called from the rooftops above.

He took a pair of lock picks from his pocket. He had found them a long time ago in the apartment of a burglar who had committed suicide. Over the years there had been rare but important occasions on which the picks had come in handy. He used one of them to tease up the pins in the cheap gate lock, used the other pick to hold the pins in place once they'd been teased. In two minutes he was inside.

A small courtyard lay behind Graham Harris's house. A patch of gra.s.s. Two trees. A brick patio. Of course, the two flower beds were barren during the winter; however, the presence of a wrought-iron table and four wrought-iron chairs made it seem that people had been playing cards in the sun just that afternoon. however, the presence of a wrought-iron table and four wrought-iron chairs made it seem that people had been playing cards in the sun just that afternoon.

He crossed the courtyard and climbed three steps to the rear entrance.

The storm door was not locked.

As delicately, swiftly and silently as he could manage, he picked the lock on the wooden door.

He was dismayed by the ease with which he had gained entry. Wouldn't people ever ever learn to buy good locks? learn to buy good locks?

Harris's kitchen was warm and dark. It smelled of spice cake, and of bananas that had been put out to ripen and were now overripe.

He closed the door soundlessly.

For a few minutes he stood perfectly still, listening to the house and waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Finally, when he could identify every object in the kitchen, he went to the table, lifted a chair away from it, put the chair down again without making even the faintest noise.

He sat down and took his revolver from the shoulder holster under his left arm. He held the gun in his lap.

44.

The squad car waited at the curb until Graham opened the front door of the house. Then it drove away, leaving tracks in the five-inch snowfall that, in Greenwich Village, had not yet been pushed onto the sidewalks.

He switched on the foyer light. As Connie closed the door, he went into the unlighted living room and located the nearest table lamp. He turned it on-and froze, unable to find the strength or the will to remove his fingers from the switch.

A man sat in one of the easy chairs. He had a gun.

Connie put one hand on Graham's arm. To the man in the chair, she said, ”What are you doing here?”

Anthony Prine, the host of Manhattan at Midnight, Manhattan at Midnight, stood up. He waved the gun at them. ”I've been waiting for you.” stood up. He waved the gun at them. ”I've been waiting for you.”

”Why are you talking like that?” Connie asked.

”The Southern accent? I was born with it. Got rid of it years ago. But I can recall it when I want. It was losing the accent that got me interested in mimicry. I started in show business as a comic who did imitations of famous people. Now I imitate Billy James Plover, the man I used to be.”

”How did you get in here?” Graham demanded.

”I went around the side of the house and broke a window.”

”Get out. I want you out of here.”

”You killed Dwight,” Prine said. ”I drove by the Bowerton Building after the show. I saw all the cops. I know what you did.” He was very pale. His face was lined with strain.

”Killed who?” Graham asked.

”Dwight. Franklin Dwight Bollinger.”

Perplexed, Graham said, ”He was trying to kill us.”

”He was one of the best people. One of the very best there ever was. I did a program about vice cops, and he was one of the guests. Within minutes we knew we were two of a kind.”

”He was the Butcher, the one who-”

Prine was extremely agitated. His hands were shaking. His left cheek was distorted by a nervous tic. He interrupted Connie and said, ”Dwight was half the Butcher.”

”Half the Butcher?” Connie said.

Graham lowered his hand from the switch and gripped the pillar of the bra.s.s table lamp.

”I was the other half,” Prine said. ”We were identical personalities, Dwight and I.” He took one step toward them. Then another. ”More than that. We were incomplete without each other. We were halves of the same organism.” He pointed the pistol at Graham's head.

”Get out of here!” Graham shouted. ”Run, Connie!” And as he spoke he threw the lamp at Prine.

The lamp knocked Prine back into the easy chair.

Graham turned to the foyer.

Connie was opening the front door.

As he followed her, Prine shot him in the back.

A terrible blow on the right shoulder blade, a burst of light, blood spattering the carpet all around him ...

He fell and rolled onto his side in time to see Ira Preduski come out of the hallway that led to the kitchen.

He floated on a raft of pain in a sea that grew darker by the second. What was happening?

The detective shouted at Prine and then shot him in self-defense. Once. In the chest.

The talk-show host collapsed against a magazine rack.

Pain. just the first twitches of pain.

Graham closed his eyes. Wondered if that was the wrong thing to do. If you go to sleep, you'll die. Or was that only with a head injury? He opened his eyes to be on the safe side.