The 1st Deadly Sin

She leaned forward to put her lips on his left nipple; his eyes closed with pleasure.

“I didn’t want to travel too far,” he said. “The farther I went, carrying the concealed ice ax, the greater the danger. It had to be in my own neighborhood. Near. Why not? The murder of a stranger. A crime without motive. What difference if it was next door or a hundred miles away? Who could connect me?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Oh yes.”

He told her how he had walked the streets for three nights, seeking the lonely blocks, noting the lighting, remembering bus stops and subway stations, lobbies with doormen, deserted stretches of unattended stores and garages.

“I couldn’t plan it. I decided it would have to be chance. Pure chance. ‘Pure.’ That’s a funny word, Celia. But it was pure. I swear to you. I mean, there was no sex connected with it. I mean, I didn’t walk around with an erection. I didn’t have an orgasm when I did it. Nothing like that. Do you believe me?”

“Yes.”

“It really was pure. I swear it. It was religious. I was God’s will. I know that sounds insane. But that’s how I felt. Maybe it is mad. A sweet madness. I was God on earth. When I looked at people on shadowed streets…Is he the one? Is he the one? My God, the power!”

“Oh yes. Darling, oh yes.”

He was so tender with her in that awful room…so tender. And then, the memory of the two times he had been unfaithful to his wife…He had enjoyed both adventures; both women had been his wife’s superior in bed. But he had not loved her the less for that. Instead, unaccountably, his infidelity had increased his affection for and kindness toward his wife. He touched her, kissed her, listened to her.

And now, telling this woman of murder, he felt the same thaw: not increased sexuality but heightened sweetness because he had a new mistress. He touched Celia’s cheek, kissed her fingertips, murmured, saw to her comfort, and in all things acted the gentle and parfait lover, loving her the more because he loved another most.

“It was not someone else doing it,” he assured her. “You’ve read these stories where the killer blames it on someone else. Another him. Someone who took over, controlled his mind and guided his hand. It was nothing like that. Celia, I have never had such a feeling of being myself. You know? It was a sense of oneness, of me. Do you understand?”

“Oh yes. And then?”

“I hit him. We smiled. We nodded. We passed, and I transferred the ax to my right hand. Just as I had rehearsed. And I hit him. It made a sound. I can’t describe it. A sound. And he fell forward so heavily that it pulled the ax out of my hand. I didn’t know that might happen. But I didn’t panic. Jesus, I was cool. Cold! I bent down and twisted the ax to pull it free. Tough. I had to put my foot on the back of his neck and pull up on the ax with both hands to free it. I did that. I did it! And then I found his wallet and took his driver’s license. To prove to you.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Didn’t I?”

“Yes. You did.”

They both laughed then, and rolled on the soiled bed, holding.

He tried, again, to enter into her and did not succeed, not caring, for he had already surpassed her. But he would not tell her that since she knew. She took his penis into her mouth, not licking or biting, but just in her mouth: a warm communion. He was hardly conscious of it; it did not excite him. He was a god; she was worshipping.

“One other thing,” he said dreamily. “When, finally, on the night, I looked down the street and saw him walking toward me through that orange glow, and I thought yes, now, he is the one, I loved him so much then, loved him.”

“Loved him? Why?”

“I don’t know. But I did. And respected him. Oh yes. And had such a sense of gratitude toward him. That he was giving. So much. To me. Then I killed him.”

2

“Good-morning, Charles,” Daniel called, and the doorman whirled around, shocked by the friendly voice and pleasant smile. “Looks like a sunny day today.”

“Oh. Yes sir,” Lipsky said, confused. “Sunny day. That’s what the paper said. Cab, Mr. Blank?”

“Please.”

The doorman went down to the street, whistled up a taxi, rode it back to the apartment house entrance. He got out and held the door open for Daniel.

“Have a good day, Mr. Blank.”

“You too, Charles,” and handed him the usual quarter. He gave the driver the address of the Javis-Bircham Building.

“Go through the park, please. I know it’s longer but I’ve got time.”

“Sure.”

“Looks like a nice sunny day today.”

“That’s what the radio just said,” the driver nodded. “You sound like you feel good today.”

“Yes,” Blank smiled. “I do.”

“Morning, Harry,” he said to the elevator starter. “A nice sunny morning.”

“Sure is, Mr. Blank. Hope it stays like this.”

“Good-morning, Mrs. Cleek,” Blank said to his secretary as he hung away his hat and coat. “Looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day.”

“Yes sir. I hope it lasts.”

“It will.” He looked at her closely a moment. “Mrs. Cleek, you seem a bit pale. Are you feeling all right?”

She blushed with pleasure at his concern. “Oh yes, Mr. Blank, I feel fine.”

“How’s that boy of yours?”

“I got a letter from him yesterday. He’s doing very well. He’s in a military academy, you know.”

Blank didn’t, but nodded. “Well, you do look a bit weary. Why don’t you plan on taking a few Fridays off? It’s going to be a long winter. We all need relaxation.”

“Why…thank you very much, Mr. Blank. That’s very kind of you.”

“Just let me know in advance and arrange for someone from the pool to fill in. That’s a pretty dress.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Blank,” she repeated, dazed. “Your coffee is on your desk, and a report came down from upstairs. I put it next to your coffee.”

“What’s it about?”

“Oh, I didn’t read it, sir. It’s sealed and confidential.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Cleek. I’ll buzz when I want to do letters.”

“Thank you again, Mr. Blank. For the days off, I mean.” He smiled and made a gesture. He sat down at his bare table and sipped coffee, staring at the heavy manila envelope from the president’s office, stamped CONFIDENTIAL. He didn’t open it, but taking his plastic container of coffee walked to the plate glass windows facing west.

It was an extraordinarily clear day, the smog mercifully lifted. He could see tugboats on the Hudson, a cruise liner putting out to sea, traffic on the Jersey shore, and blue hills far away. Everything was bright and glittering, a new world. He could almost peer into a distant future.

He drained his coffee and looked into the plastic cup. It was white foam, stained now, and of the consistency of cottage cheese. It bulged in his grip and felt of soap. He flicked on his intercom.

“Sir?” Mrs. Cleek asked.

“Would you do me a favor?”

“Of course, sir.”

“On your lunch hour-well, take your usual hour, of course, but then take some more time-grab a cab over to