Roger finished eating, left the rest of his champagne untouched, cleared the table. He scraped the leavings into the garbage disposal, loaded the dishwasher, except for the champagne flutes and the Sevres, which he washed by hand, turned the machine on, using the energy-saver switch. He dried the glasses and the china, put them back in their cupboards, returned to the dining room and blew out the candles. Then he sat at the kitchen table and did nothing. The house was silent.
An hour later, by the clock, he rose, removed his shoes, went upstairs. He put his ear to Francie’s door, listened, heard nothing. Francie had come through beautifully tonight, looking the part to perfection. Despondent, officer, if I had to put it in a word. I tried to cheer her up, but… Roger went into the guest bathroom at the end of the hall, returned with a towel, left it lying by the door. Then he started down to his basement HQ, where the pipeline project awaited.
First, like a surgeon, gloves. Then into the garage, the windowless garage, invisible. Roger stuck one end of the three linked garden hoses into the tailpipe of Francie’s car. He secured the connection with duct tape, triple- wrapping the tape two or three feet along the hose, making it absolutely leakproof. He paused. Would used duct tape, found in the trash, say, constitute evidence, dangerous to him in any way? Probably not, but he made a note to ball up the remains afterward and melt them away on the stove, just to be safe. The hoses he would disconnect, recoil, put back in the storage room until spring. Anything else? No. He opened the door to Francie’s car. Her key was in the ignition, where she always left it when parked in the garage, despite his every admonition. Taking hold of the key between gloved forefinger and thumb, Roger turned it, started the engine. He held the open end of the hose close to his face and felt a warm little breeze.
Then, out of the garage, up the stairs, uncoiling the hose, his mind making silent chortles as he went. First floor, through the kitchen, around into the first-floor hall, up the stairs, into the second-floor hall. He switched off the lights and walked softly to her door. About five or six feet of hose left: perfect.
Nora and Savard stood before the half-size wooden lockers in the corridor leading to the indoor courts at the tennis club.
“This one,” Nora said.
“I’d need a warrant.”
“And what if I did it?”
“That would be a crime.”
“Arrest me,” Nora said. She kicked in the locker.
Roger listened at the door again. Silence. Are you sleeping, are you sleeping? Of course she was. Lethe, refuge of the guilty feminine mind. Now came the tricky part, the only tricky part, really. With the end of the hose in his left hand, he took the doorknob in his right and turned it slowly, very slowly, very silently, as far as it would go. Then, holding it there, he knelt and pushed the door open an inch, very slowly, very silently. He laid the end of the hose on the rug inside the bedroom, closed the door back over it, flattening the plastic only negligibly. Then, door closed, the turning back of the knob, very slowly, very silently. Done. Still kneeling, Roger rolled the towel he’d left there-to be laundered later in the unlikely event it retained gas residue-into a long sausage and aligned it firmly in the strip under the door. Done and done! Roger knelt in front of Francie’s door for five full minutes, by his watch, and heard not a sound, not a whisper of a sound, from the other side. He rose at the end of the fifth minute precisely. How did they say “the end” in Italy? Oh, Roger: perfect, perfect, perfect.
And then the light went on.
“I get it,” Whitey said.
Roger spun around. Whitey! There was Whitey filling the hall, crude stitches in his face, an ax in his hands. Any other relevant details? No. How did he get into the house, for instance? Roger’s brain turned on him: not relevant, not relevant, not relevant. Let me think.
“I get it now,” Whitey said.
Think.
But how, with that look in Whitey’s eyes?
Think.
“Get ready to have your dreams twisted,” Whitey said. Or some such gibberish. “You couldn’t possibly ‘get it,’ Whitey.”
“You must think I’m pretty dumb.” Whitey took a step toward him.
“Not at all, not at all,” Roger said, and what presence of mind, to keep his voice down like that. “You misunderstand me. The point, the salient point, Whitey, is that”- Yes! Brilliant! Back in control!“ we’re both victims here.”
“I’m nobody’s victim,” Whitey said, and took another step.
“Not victims in the sense you mean. I’m speaking metaphorically, if you will. The background is rather complex, but try to focus on the idea that everything can still work, surprisingly smoothly, even, if you-if we-keep our wits about us. The first step would be to switch that light back off.”
Whitey did not. Neither did the look in his eyes disappear; in fact, it grew madder. “You set me up,” he said.
“Oh, so that’s it,” said Roger. “Nothing could be further from the truth. But before I explain, I must ask you to keep your voice down.”
Whitey did not. “There was no painting in the first place,” he said.
“Certainly there was. I had it in my own hands at one stage in the proceedings.” Think. What is the goal? To get that ax, to drive it through Whitey’s skull. “What you must understand, what you’ve got to take on board, as it were, is that we’ve both been manipulated by a third party. Why don’t we put down that implement, so out of place in a domestic setting like this, and go downstairs for a quiet discussion?” Drive it through Whitey’s skull, and then through Francie’s, aborting the CO procedure. An improvisation of an improvisation that could still work-his brain was already sketching in the adjustments.
Whitey’s hands tightened on the handle; Roger saw the tendons pop out. “No one manipulates me,” he said.
“Am I not aware of that?” Adjust, adjust. “And because of that attribute, so prominent in your character, this is going to be your lucky day.”
“How’s that?”
“Because the opportunity has arisen for taking revenge on your manipulator. Putative manipulator,” Roger amended, to forestall another touchy reaction.
Whitey took another step, was now no more than six feet away. “You killed Ma,” he said.
Perhaps revenge had been too potent a word, perhaps he’d introduced it too abruptly into the mix, too unadorned. But a daring counter presented itself; no time for even his brain to think it through to the end, but the feeling surrounding it was the feeling that always accompanied his best ideas. “I did it for you, Whitey.”
Whitey, who appeared to be on the verge of taking another step, paused. “For me?”
Got him! “We’re partners, Whitey. I’m on your side.”
“What do you mean you did it for me?”
“I’m familiar with the psychiatrist’s testimony, Whitey. I know she’s responsible for the… perturbations in your past.”
“Perturbations? Are you accusing me of fucking my own mother?”
“No, no, no. Perturbations, Whitey.” How to explain it? Think, think. Whitey took another step. “Ups and downs,” Roger said, perhaps too explosively, perhaps too loud. “Ups and downs.”
Whitey halted. “You killed her because of that?”
“If I’ve gone too far, forgive me, Whitey. It was with the best intentions. And what kind of a life did she have, anyway? The crux of the matter is that we’re partners. Share and share alike. If you’ve spent any time in this house, you know a certain amount of wealth is represented. Why, the Arp alone is worth its weight in gold.”
“What’s an arp?”
“What a character you are,” Roger said. “He was a famous sculptor, and I’ve got a rare piece of his, down on the bookcase in the living room. For your next birthday, shall we say? Why don’t we go down and take a peek at it?”
“Fuck that,” Whitey said. And that look in his eye, the one Roger didn’t like, which had faded a bit, intensified. Unaccountable.
“I hope I haven’t offended you, Whitey. As your partner, the last thing I’d want to do is violate your amour
