Wake of a Killer
by Art Crockett
Murder... as in a glass darkly.
Floyd Karnes knew he would have to act quickly. He yanked off the surgical gloves and stuffed them into his pocket. Then he strode to the smashed mirror on the wall, adjusted his tie and patted his breast pocket handkerchief.
Satisfied with his appearance, he turned away from the broken mirror and stepped over the dead girl, taking care to avoid the splintered glass between the wall and the door.
He didn’t turn for a final look at her. There was no time for that. He had to get out of the building in a hurry. In all probability the crash of glass had been heard by the other tenants, and the more curious of them would lose no time in investigating.
Cautiously, Floyd opened the door a crack. He listened. The hall was quiet. He slipped out of the apartment, closed the door firmly behind him and made his way to the building’s self-service elevator.
He was conscious now of the sweat that drenched his body. His shirt was glued to his skin and. there was a coldness at the base of his spine.
It was always like that after a killing. The knowledge that he had successfully killed before didn’t make the job any easier, especially when his victim was a girl — an extremely pretty girl like Linda Barton.
And now, on this particular job, there was something else for him to worry about.
He’d experienced it first while listening at the door. A light-headedness, a sudden weakening of physical power. It was alarming, inexplicable. He was even more acutely aware of it now as he stood at the elevator shaft and pressed the down button.
He shrugged the feeling off. He waited a few seconds, then pressed the button again. Standing in the hall, in full view of anyone who might open a door, was maddening. He smashed his fist into the palm of his hand.
Where was that elevator cab?
With a determined effort of will he reminded himself that the only important thing to think about right now was to get to his car. Purposely, he’d parked it ten blocks away. A necessary precaution. Why give any casual onlooker something to remember when the story of the killing was out?
But Floyd wasn’t in the car yet. In fact, he wasn’t even out of the building. He was far from being in the clear. Panic rose in him as he tried desperately to steel himself against the prospect of the unexpected.
If anyone knew the risks involved in the business of murder, Floyd Karnes knew them. Floyd was a professional. But repetition was no guarantee that he would ever acquire an aloof indifference to the act. He trembled now as violently as he had on his first job. His body shook as if an icy blast of wind was whipping his bared back mercilessly.
Dozens of times in the past he’d known the creepy feeling that dogged him after a job was done. And he knew that until a full month had blurred the vivid scene, he’d re-live hour by hour, day by day, everything that happened in Linda’s apartment.
The elevator had arrived at his floor. It was empty. Floyd was grateful for that. He stepped into the cage and ran his shaking finger down the row of black buttons. He stopped at the one marked M. Main floor. M is also for murder.
The elevator cage descended slowly. Ordinarily, Floyd suffered no sensation in elevator cages. But now the dizziness was back. He closed his eyes, searched for a reason. He pressed his cold palm against his forehead. There was no fever. At least, none that he could detect. And he wasn’t ill. He straightened, pressed tightly against the back wall of the descending cage, telling himself that what he needed was a good sleep.
Now his thoughts raced back to each little gesture he made in Linda Barton’s apartment. He wondered if he’d left any damaging evidence lying about. She’d fought hard. She could have ripped something from him — a button perhaps. Or maybe some small object had fallen out of his pocket and passed unnoticed.
He shook his fogged head. The mere act of thinking was strangely difficult for him. He tried to clear away the mishmash: of unrelated thoughts that plagued him. With effort he could remember entering her apartment. He remembered how her knees had buckled when she’d seen the surgical gloves on his hands.
A scream caught in her throat, froze there. Suddenly, the girl straightened, seemed to draw on an inner courage. She glared at the intruder. “Who are you? What do you want?”
Floyd advanced on her. “You blabbed to the Grand Jury, kid. What did you expect? A good pal of yours is paying plenty for this.”
He didn’t know the whole story. He wasn’t supposed to know it. He was told simply that Linda Barton was the property of a big name — a name big enough to push the threat of war off the front pages.
According to Floyd’s informant, Linda Barton’s big trouble centered around her pretty mouth. Big Name wanted it shut, forever.
Now, Linda circled Floyd and managed to keep furniture between them. He made no noisy attempt to go after her. Instead, he waited patiently for his opportunity to strike. He leaned his tall frame against a huge wall mirror and snapped his surgical gloves menacingly.
“You can run all day, baby. But you’d better accept it. There’s no other way.”
The girl stood at a coffee table. A heavy glass ashtray caught her eye. She picked it up, held it above her head. “I don’t know who you are, mister. But I think you’re bluffing. I’m supposed to be scared, right? This is an object lesson. I’ll bet on it.”
She was breathing heavily. Her face broke into an uncertain smile. Confidence was ebbing from her and Floyd noticed it. She said, “If you take one more step I’m going to throw this thing and then scream my head off.”
Floyd accepted the challenge. He took a step forward. The ashtray shot through the air. Floyd ducked. He heard it smash into the mirror behind him and felt the spray of glass that spewed out like shrapnel.
Before Linda could release the scream she threatened, Floyd’s strong hands closed around her throat...
He stepped out of the elevator cab on the main floor and stood for a moment surveying the lobby. Sunlight poured through heavy glass doors. He pushed through them and headed for the busy avenue.
His body still trembled; he was still sweating. He’d take a shower when he got home, he promised himself. Then he’d crawl into bed for a few hours’ sleep.
At the busy corner he turned left, headed North. Parking his car ten blocks away was a shrewd move. People had an annoying way of remembering a little thing like a man climbing into a parked car. Evidence like that could be damaging.
Busy shoppers on the avenue jostled against him and hurried on without apology. He kept pace with them, acted the part of one who was also interested in what the shop windows had to offer.
He stopped at a clothing store, appraised the styles-shown in the window, then casually moved on to the next window.
At the next corner he joined a small group of sidewalk engineers intently concerned with the repaving of a side street. Floyd didn’t particularly care for the scene, and for some frightening reason he wasn’t at all sure why he stopped. The noise of the steam roller pierced his ears and for an uncomfortable moment he suffered another dizzy spell.
When the traffic light changed he was swept along with the crowd. But now he couldn’t keep pace with them. He lagged behind. His legs felt as though they were apart from him.
At the next corner he stopped and waited for the traffic light to change. Two policemen stood near him, engrossed in their own conversation. Floyd figured he could dart across on red, but that would be foolish. Cops were giving people tickets for jaywalking. It’d be just his luck—