But the window had not been opened for years and it refused to budge even a fraction of an inch after he had unlocked it. He hammered at it with the heel of his hand until, finally, it squeaked upwards. It stuck again, only half open, but that was good enough. A slim burglar should be able to wriggle through an opening that size. He groped for the towels in the darkness and found the largest one. It was big enough to drape down over the inside of the window, with still enough left to bunch up over his fist when he poked his arm outside. The glass broke with the first hard punch, a few shards tinkling down into the tub, a sound that had to be too small to be heard by anyone outside the room. He stepped carefully back out of the tub, kicking the bathmat to one side, before he lowered the towel and shook its load of broken glass into the bottom of the tub.
It was all very logical; he put the mat back on the floor and dropped the bath towel into the tub. An intruder had broken the window and climbed through. The towel was there in the tub, sloppy girls, that would explain the shards of glass in it. Now he was in the apartment. What would the intruder do next?
He would go into the living-room. Search for valuables. Very quietly because the walls were like paper in some of these buildings. Ease the drawers from the desk, dump them silently onto the rug. Then the books. He stepped over the corpse, scarcely noticing it, as he systematically vandalized the apartment. There was some jewellery in a dresser drawer, not worth a lot, and he stuffed it into his jacket pocket. Burglars need money. In the drawer, further back behind the jewel box, he found her diary.
It was fun to read. But how could anyone write such stupid stuff? This guy and this girl and I saw someone else and I got a permanent today. He flipped quickly through the pages until he noticed his name. He scowled as he read her secret thoughts. She had her goddamned nerve. Penny-pinching, him! She had really got what she deserved. He slipped the thin book into his pocket. Her purse was on the bed; he stripped the money from it then threw it onto the kitchen floor. It was only then that he noticed the cup of coffee cooling on the counter.
Christ, he was being stupid! She was out there in the other room, lying on top of one cup. So why coffee for two? Had she been getting chummy with the burglar or something? The police would not ignore a clue like this. He cursed himself for forgetting such an obvious thing as he carefully poured the coffee down the drain, then rinsed out the cup, saucer and spoon. Drying them and putting them away.
It was almost one before he was finished. It took an effort, but he forced himself to ignore the time. She had said Tricia would not be back until one at the earliest. He had to be thorough, had to check carefully, then check everything again. He went through the apartment slowly, room by room, until he was absolutely sure that there were no clues present to mark his presence. This had been a simple break-in, a robbery, then murder on the spur of the moment when the girl suddenly appeared. With no evidence to the contrary. It was perfect.
The fuse box was in the kitchen, behind the door. He twisted the main fuse until all of the lights went out. The apartment was pitch black and he had to use his lighter to find his way back to the living-room. He pulled the armchair over, out of line of sight of the door, then sat down in it in the darkness to wait.
Time stretched out, slower and slower, as he thought of all the things that might still go wrong. Normally he was not a man with much imagination, but now he began to shift and turn in the chair. Was there a chance that someone might have seen his car in the lot downstairs, and noticed that it didn't belong there? They could have written down the number or — even worse — called the police. Or Tricia might not come home, maybe she was going to shack up for the night with her boyfriend. He could still be there at dawn. Or…
The key turned in the lock.
On the instant he was up, careful, no rush, walking quietly to stand against the wall. Three keys, plenty of time. Two. Then the scratch of the bar, three. Light streamed in from the hall and he had a quick glimpse of her silhouette as she stepped through.
'Marianne,' she whispered. 'Are you home honey? Asleep?'
A New York accent. Another Yankee bitch.
She closed the door and groped her way down the wall in the darkness for the light switch. She clicked it back and forth.
'Shit. Burned out,' she muttered. He slid along the wall towards the sound.
He had been in the darkness longer; his eyes were more adjusted to it. He could see her outlined against the streetlight that filtered through the curtains. He reached out for her.
She had time for only a single, choked-off gasp before his fingers locked tight. After that she had no chance. She was young and strong, but not strong enough. He had come up behind her so that there was no possibility that she might scratch or kick him. He pulled her body close to his and bent backwards, lifting her free of the floor.
She writhed and kicked, slower and slower. His arms were tired but he still held her, his fingers dug deep into her flesh long after he was sure that she was dead. But he did not take chances, he never took chances. Even when he released her neck he still made sure. Grabbing her full breasts and squeezing as hard as he could with both hands. Not a sound out of her. Just perfect, that's what it was, just perfect.
The phone began to ring as she slipped heavily to the floor.
What was it? Who could it be at this time of night? Could it be a neighbour who had heard something? No, impossible, he had been careful, quiet.
Wes stood in the darkness, paralysed with indecision. He couldn't answer it — but he didn't dare open the hall door while it was still ringing. It was too loud. Should he take it off the hook? No…
It stopped ringing and he let his breath out in a rush. Time to get out of here. He felt his way to the door and stepped on something that crunched underfoot. What was it? It hadn't been there before. He kicked it ahead and opened the hall door a crack and peered through. The hall outside was empty. He opened the door a bit wider and looked down.
It was a woman's purse that he had stepped on; he smiled into the darkness. All contributions to the cause were gratefully accepted. He fumbled her wallet out, fingers clumsy in the gloves, and extracted the bills. Her lipstick fell onto the floor and rolled close to the full-length mirror by the entrance.
It gave him a very good idea. A little more distraction for the police. With the hall door open a crack there was just enough light for him to see what he was doing. Printing on the mirror with the lipstick, great sprawling illiterate letters. A work of art. He threw the lipstick aside and let in a bit more light to admire it.
OAFFEY PIGS DIE
That would put them off the scent all right! Now — it was time to go.
At one-thirty on a weekday morning, in a DC apartment house, there is very little stirring. The indicators on both elevators were unmoving; one of them still standing at this floor. He went right by them to the emergency stairs. No chances, take no chances. He walked all the way down, as quietly as he could, to the sub-basement. He pushed the door open slowly but the hall here was also empty. The lights were dim in the tiny lobby by the rear entrance; the lot outside was empty and dark. A fine rain was beginning to fall. Wes let himself out and, head tucked down, hurried to his car. The engine caught on the first turn; he used only his parking lights as he drove out of the lot. Then he turned on his low beams — and just caught the green as he turned onto Connecticut. Not a pedestrian or another car in sight.
He had driven two blocks before he remembered that he hadn't gone back into the kitchen to screw the fuse in; a sudden fear dragged at him. It was too late, impossible, to go back. What would the police make of it? He had no idea — but at least it didn't link with him in any way. It would be all right. He laughed, shakily, as the fear ebbed slowly away.