Part 39 (1/2)

No, his heart had been floating somewhere behind the seats in the box to stage right, Tabor's box. It had been fluttering and hovering somewhere there in the shadows, where behind a red velvet curtain a door led to the pa.s.sageway which connected the theater to the third floor of the Clarendon Hotel. Outside the Opera House, on his way here, he had looked up and seen it: a long windowless brick structure, graceless but utilitarian, obviously an afterthought, poised in midair between the two buildings.

All he need do was take an oil lamp, walk up into Tabor's box, pull back the curtain, open the door, amble down the pa.s.sageway, open the door on the other side, find room 303, use the key she had given him, and straightaway he would be with her.

She would be awaiting him, she had said.

Probably she would already be lying in bed, her remarkable red hair atumble on her pale white shoulders, one perfect pert nipple peeking (perhaps) above the sheet ...

He would not go to her.

To go to her was to admit that he must have her; that to have her, he would accept her even on her own, impossible, terms. To go to her was to validate her worldview at the expense of his own. To go to her was to surrender his dreams to the sordid reality of her arrangement with Tabor. To go to her was to diminish himself.

But in his pocket, heavy inside its cardboard box, was the silver brooch he had purchased in Denver. He had not given it to her this morning (what with revelations and revolvers, he had not found the time); and for some reason, not thinking about it, when he dressed this evening he had slipped the box into the pocket of his green velvet jacket.

He didn't want the b.l.o.o.d.y thing. It would serve, forever, as a reminder. Of his foolishness. Of his stupidity.

He could, of course, throw it away. But that seemed a terrible waste.

What he should do, perhaps, was go to her room-for only a moment or two. Give her the brooch. Here. Something I picked up for you in Denver, before you tore out my heart and hurled it to the ground and performed a mazurka atop it.

No. No bitterness. Bitterness would lose her forever.

Idiot. You've already lost her forever.

No. What was needed here was a light touch. A casual, airy insouciance.

Just stopped by for a minute, must run, but I thought I'd pa.s.s along this little bauble. Nothing special, but I thought it might amuse you. Well, cheerio, do drop me a line if you get the opportunity. You have the address?-The Rambles, Grosvenor Square, London. Oh, and make sure you write private on the envelope. Otherwise one of the servants might open it, they're hopeless really.

She would be naked under the sheet.

He sat forward, stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray.

He would go to her, yes, but only for a moment. Only to give her the brooch.

In his carpetbag, lying in the shadows beside him, he had everything he needed. A coil of rope. A change of clothes. An oil lamp. A square of soap and a large bottle of warm water, so that afterward, when he had done with the creature, he might wash the stains of it from his body. And afterward, he would use the oil remaining in the lamp to burn the clothes he wore now.

The knife was in the inner pocket of his jacket. The gun was in his topcoat pocket.

He was ready.

The night was perfect. The full moon was nearly at the center of the sky and by its light, had he wished to, he could have read a newspaper. He had not needed the oil lamp to search through the chill, empty hallways of the Palace. The room he had chosen was ideal for his purposes: splashed with moonlight, ceilingless but for the spidery metal framework which had once held sheets of ice. Part of one wall had already collapsed. In one corner lay a ragged jumble of ice and snow, and there, afterward, when he had finished, he would bury it. He had never felt the need before to hide them, to conceal the bits and pieces; but with Grigsby still prowling about, concealment was the wisest course. No one would find it for weeks, and by then he would long be gone.

The earth beneath his feet was a frigid, semiliquid muck which now, in the cold, was beginning to solidify. His toes were aching, tingling-an indication that once again all his senses had been brought to a preternatural sharpness.

He could hear his breathing, soft and steady. Always he was surprised and pleased by how calm he could remain. Anyone else might, right now, be panting with fear and tension. He- He heard, and then he saw, the carriage. Led by two prancing black horses, it rolled across the empty field of snow. Even from a hundred yards away, so extraordinary was the accuracy of his vision, he could see her clearly, sitting upright in the seat, her long red hair trailing in the wind behind her, black now in the moonlight.

Always, before, he had gone in search of his prey. Stalking it. Tonight it came to him.

He giggled.

How convenient this was. He must use this method again.

The carriage drew closer, the thudding of the horses' hooves, the rattle of the wheels, growing louder in the still night air.

Come to me, b.i.t.c.h. Come to me, s.l.u.t.

Come to us.

Oscar knocked on the door to room 303.

No answer.

He slipped the key into the lock, turned it, pushed open the door.

”Elizabeth?”

He shut the door behind him. The only light came from the oil lamp he held. He was in the empty sitting room of a suite-bookcases, a dining table and some chairs, a long sofa behind a dark-wood coffee table. A door stood open to his right. The bedroom.

She would be in there, naked, lying on the bed.

Just stopped by for a minute, must run ...

He entered the bedroom. The room was empty, the bed was empty.

Another betrayal.

A cruel joke.

Somewhere she was laughing at him, filled with wicked mirth as she pictured him standing here, the lamp in his hand, an expression of doltish disappointment on his face.

Enough. He had played the fool for far too long.

He was turning to leave when he saw, lying open on the dresser top, a sheet of paper.

Perhaps she had been called away, perhaps she had left him a note.

He crossed the room, lifted the paper, read, ”My Dear Mrs. Doe ...”

He frowned. A joke, yes; but a joke played on her. By someone else. Someone masquerading as him.

Was the woman a ninny? How could she possibly have believed that he had written this drivel? Declarative sentences so simple as to be almost moronic. Could she really accept that he was capable of such limp, pedestrian prose?

And I have something of great weight and pointedness to share with you. Only a dull, lewd mind could have produced that.

Nasty, really. Repellent.

Who could have written it? And why had he done so?

Suddenly he knew.

Not who, but why.