The Face Of Fear Part 11

"Who?"

"One of them is the woman I love."

"What's her name?"

"I wish I didn't have to kill her."

"Then don't. You-"

"But I think she suspects."

"Why don't we-"

"Nietzsche was right."

"Who?"

"Nietzsche."

"Who's he?"

"A philosopher."

"Oh."

"He was right about women."

"What did he say about women?"

"They just get in our way. They hold us back from perfection. All those energies we put into courting them and s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g them-wasted! All that wasted s.e.x energy could be put to other use, to thought and study. If we didn't waste our energies on women, we could evolve into what we were meant to be."

"And what were we meant to be?"

"Are you trying to trace this call?"

"No, no."

"Yes. Of course you are."

"No, really we aren't."

"I'll be gone from here in a minute. I just wanted to tell you that tomorrow you'll know who I am, who the Butcher is. But you won't catch me. I'm the lightning out of the dark cloud man."

"Let's try to-"

"Good-bye, Detective Martin."

15.

At seven o'clock Friday evening, a fine dry snow began to fall in Manhattan, not merely flurries but a full-scale storm. The snow sifted out of the black sky and made pale, s.h.i.+fting patterns on the dark streets.

In his living room, Frank Bollinger watched the millions of tiny flakes streaming past the window. The snow pleased him no end. With the weekend ahead, and now especially with the change of weather, it was doubtful that anyone other than Harris and his woman would be working late in the Bowerton Building. He felt that his chances of getting to them and pulling off the plan without a hitch had improved considerably. The snow was an accomplice.

At seven-twenty, he took his overcoat from the hall closet, slipped into it and b.u.t.toned up.

The pistol was already in the right coat pocket. He wasn't using his police revolver, because bullets from that could be traced too easily. This was a Walther PPK, a compact .38 that had been banned from importation into the United States since 1969. (A slightly larger pistol, the Walther PPK/S, was now manufactured for marketing in the United States; it was less easily concealed than the original model.) There was a silencer on the piece, not homemade junk but a precision-machined silencer made by Walther for use by various elite European police agencies. Even with the silencer screwed in place, the gun fit easily out of sight in the deep overcoat pocket. Bollinger had taken the weapon off a dead man, a suspect in a narcotics and prost.i.tution investigation. The moment he saw it he knew that he must have it it was less easily concealed than the original model.) There was a silencer on the piece, not homemade junk but a precision-machined silencer made by Walther for use by various elite European police agencies. Even with the silencer screwed in place, the gun fit easily out of sight in the deep overcoat pocket. Bollinger had taken the weapon off a dead man, a suspect in a narcotics and prost.i.tution investigation. The moment he saw it he knew that he must have it; and he failed to report finding it as he should have done. That was nearly a year ago and he failed to report finding it as he should have done. That was nearly a year ago; he'd had no occasion to use it until tonight. he'd had no occasion to use it until tonight.

In his left coat pocket, Bollinger was carrying a box of fifty bullets. He didn't think he'd need more than were already in the pistol's magazine, but he intended to be prepared for any eventuality.

He left the apartment and took the stairs two at a time, eager for the hunt to begin.

Outside, the grainy, wind-driven snow was like bits of ground gla.s.s. The night howled spectrally between the buildings and rattled the branches of the trees.

Graham Harris's office, the largest of the five rooms in the Harris Publications suite on the fortieth floor of the Bowerton Building, didn't look like a place where business was transacted. It was paneled in dark wood-real and solid wood, not veneer-and had a textured beige acoustical ceiling. The forest-green ceiling-to-floor drapes matched the plush carpet. The desk had once been a Steinway piano; the guts had been ripped out, the lid lowered and cut to fit the frame. Behind the desk rose bookshelves filled with volumes about skiing and climbing. The light came from four floor-lamps with old-fas.h.i.+oned ceramic sconces and gla.s.s chimneys that hid the electric bulbs. There were also two bra.s.s reading lamps on the desk. A small conference table and four armchairs occupied the s.p.a.ce in front of the windows. A richly carved seventeenth-century British coatrack stood by the door to the corridor, and an antique bar of cut gla.s.s, beveled mirrors and inlaid woods stood by the door to the reception lounge. On the walls were photographs of climbing teams in action, and there was one oil painting, a mountain snow-scape. The room might have been a study in the home of a retired professor, where books were read and pipes were smoked and where a spaniel lay curled at the feet of its master. the guts had been ripped out, the lid lowered and cut to fit the frame. Behind the desk rose bookshelves filled with volumes about skiing and climbing. The light came from four floor-lamps with old-fas.h.i.+oned ceramic sconces and gla.s.s chimneys that hid the electric bulbs. There were also two bra.s.s reading lamps on the desk. A small conference table and four armchairs occupied the s.p.a.ce in front of the windows. A richly carved seventeenth-century British coatrack stood by the door to the corridor, and an antique bar of cut gla.s.s, beveled mirrors and inlaid woods stood by the door to the reception lounge. On the walls were photographs of climbing teams in action, and there was one oil painting, a mountain snow-scape. The room might have been a study in the home of a retired professor, where books were read and pipes were smoked and where a spaniel lay curled at the feet of its master.

Connie opened the foil-lined box on the conference table. Steam rose from the pizza; a spicy aroma filled the office. a spicy aroma filled the office.

The wine was chilled. In the pizzeria, she had made them keep the bottle in their refrigerator until the pie was ready to go.

Famished, they ate and drank in silence for a few minutes.

Finally she said, "Did you take a nap?"

"Did I ever."

"How long?"

"Two hours."

"Sleep well?"

"Like the dead."

"You don't look it."

"Dead?"

"You don't look like you'd slept."

"Maybe I dreamed it."

"You've got dark rings under your eyes."

"My Rudolph Valentino look."

"You should go home to bed."

"And have the printer down my throat tomorrow?"

"They're quarterly magazines. A few days one way or the other won't matter."

"You're talking to a perfectionist."

"Don't I know it."

"A perfectionist who loves you."

She blew him a kiss.

Frank Bollinger parked his car on a side street and walked the last three blocks to the Bowerton Building.

A skin of snow, no more than a quarter inch but growing deeper, sheathed the sidewalks and street. Except for a few taxicabs that spun past too fast for road conditions, there was not much traffic on Lexington Avenue.

The main entrance to the Bowerton Building was set back twenty feet from the sidewalk. There were four revolving gla.s.s doors, three of them locked at this hour. Beyond the doors the large lobby rich with marble and bra.s.swork and copper trim was overflowing with warm amber light.

Bollinger patted the pistol in his pocket and went inside.

Overhead, a closed-circuit television camera was suspended from a brace. It was focused on the only unlocked door.

Bollinger stamped his feet to knock the snow from his shoes and to give the camera time to study him. The man in the control room wouldn't find him suspicious if he faced the camera without concern.

A uniformed security guard was sitting on a stool behind a lectern near the first bank of elevators.

Bollinger walked over to him, stepped out of the camera's range.

"Evening," the guard said.

As he walked, he took his wallet from an inside pocket and flashed the gold badge. "Police." His voice echoed eerily off the marble walls and the high ceiling.

"Something wrong?" the guard asked.

"Anybody working late tonight?"

"Just four."

"All in the same office?"

"No. What's up?"

Bollinger pointed to the open registry on the lectern. "I'd like all four names."

"Let's see here ... Harris, Davis, Ott and MacDonald."

"Where would I find Ott?"

"Sixteenth floor."

"What's the name of the office?"

"Cragmont Imports."

The guard's face was round and white. He had a weak mouth and a tiny Oliver Hardy mustache. When he tried for an expression of curiosity, the mustache nearly disappeared up his nostrils.

"What floor for MacDonald?" Bollinger asked.

"Same. Sixteenth."

"He's working with Ott?"

"That's right."

"Just those four?"

"Just those four."

"Maybe someone else is working late, and you don't know it."

"Impossible. After five-thirty, anyone going upstairs has to sign in with me. At six o'clock we go through every floor to see who's working late, and then they check out with us when they leave. The building management has set down strict fire-prevention rules. This is part of them." He patted the registry. "If there's ever a fire, we'll know exactly who's in the building and where we can find them."

"What about maintenance crews?"

"What about them?"

"Janitors. Cleaning women. Any working now?"

"Not on Friday night."

"You're sure?"

"Sure I'm sure." He was visibly upset by the interrogation and beginning to wonder if he should cooperate. "They come in all day tomorrow."

"Building engineer?"

"Schiller. He's night engineer."