Part 16 (2/2)
”Were you aware that they had been killed?” Reardon asked.
”No.”
”You would have noticed that they were dead when you came to the park, wouldn't you?”
”They alive.”
”And you say you placed your ax outside the cage when you left the park. Why didn't you lock it up?”
”Too tired,” Petrakis said. ”I put it down and leave.”
Reardon nodded. Then he said sternly, almost accusingly, ”Your ax was the weapon that killed the fallow deer.”
Petrakis was unmoved. He simply nodded, staring dreamingly into Reardon's face.
”Your fingerprints are the only fingerprints on the ax,” Reardon said in the same commanding voice.
Petrakis did not answer.
”Have you ever heard of Wallace Van Allen?” Reardon asked.
”He gives the deer to the zoo,” Petrakis said.
”And he threw you out of your apartment too,” Reardon said, ”didn't he?”
”No,” Petrakis said. ”Robles.”
”Wallace Van Allen owns the building,” Reardon said.
”Oh,” Petrakis said.
”You knew that, didn't you?”
”No.”
”And you hated him, didn't you? Didn't you want to get even?”
Petrakis did not answer.
”Didn't you?” Reardon repeated.
Petrakis' face seemed to darken. ”It is the curse,” he said. ”I will die!”
Reardon leaned forward in his chair. For a moment he believed that he had broken the impenetrable surface of Petrakis' consciousness. ”Die for what?”
”This is the last,” Petrakis said.
”Last of what?”
”The curse.”
”What curse?”
”She curses me with three deaths.”
”Who?”
”My mother.”
”Why?”
”Because I leave my village in Greece. She says three would die.”
”She cursed you for coming to New York?” Reardon asked. He had heard of such things among the Irish.
Petrakis continued, dazed. ”She says that three will die. My daughter last year. Now my wife. Now me.”
”Your daughter died last year?” Reardon asked.
”Born dead,” Petrakis said without emphasis, as if filling in an inconsequential detail, as if all his nerves had been seared down to a final insensibility.
Reardon could feel a pressure behind his eyes, his skin tightening in the old, remembered fury of his pity.
17.
Reardon was still questioning Petrakis, searching for contradictions, breaks, discrepancies in his story when Mathesson walked into the precinct house later that afternoon. He seemed to be moved by a dynamo, gaining energy from the pursuit of the killer. Reardon could sense that Mathesson smelled blood, felt he was on the right track and had already fingered Petrakis as the killer in his mind. He looked at Petrakis, then at Reardon. ”Can I see you a minute?” he asked Reardon.
Reardon stood up, and he and Mathesson walked into an empty office not far from Reardon's desk. Mathesson was poised, ready. He paced to the back wall of the office, leaned his back flat against it and slapped his hands together jubilantly.
”The Van Allen connection still checks out,” he said. ”Julio Robles is just the lousy superintendent of the building. He's not the landlord.”
”Van Allen is the landlord?”
”That's right,” Mathesson said, ”and I did a little survey. You know, on my own. Everybody in that building that I could talk to knew that Wallace Van Allen was the landlord.”
Reardon nodded. There was no doubt now, Reardon knew: Mathesson was after Petrakis and already believed he had him.
”It was just like I thought,” Mathesson said, ”just like my buddy with the Hollywood star for a landlord.”
”I see,” Reardon said.
”So the connection holds.”
”Yes, I guess it does.”
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