Well, I’d taken the whiskey. And now I had my razor. I held it for a moment and watched my hand tremble, as I thought of Charlie, and how we’d parted, back in Iowa.
I held a razor in my hand then, too. It was at the height of our final quarrel, and I’d been packing, and the razor had been resting on top of the table. Just resting, until I’d grabbed it up, groping for it through a red haze, and I went for Charlie, screaming, “So I’m no good, am I? I’ll kill you for saying that, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you—”
Would I have killed him?
Suppose he hadn’t caught my wrist in time. Suppose I’d let the razor slash down. Would I have gone through with it and murdered Charlie? I still didn’t know. I know that he did grab my wrist, knock the razor to the floor, and hold me until I quieted down and the haze cleared away.
But I also knew that whenever I got angry, really angry, the haze came back—and with it, the urge to kill. Perhaps I was a murderer, at heart. Perhaps I could go out again, right now, razor in hand, and run amok in the streets among all the wooden-faced people. I could carve new expressions on their faces with this razor of mine.
I held it in my hand, and my hand didn’t tremble now. I was thinking about a whole new way of life. A way of death, rather.
Suppose I took this razor and made it an instrument of Destiny. I could carve faces, I could carve a career with it for myself. All I had to do was stand in an alley and show it to most people and they’d give me anything I wanted. They’d give me everything I couldn’t seem to get any other way. Just the sight of it was threat enough. I could get money from the men, and from the women I’d take—
No. I was crazy to think of it. It would end in murder, and I’d become a killer, just as I feared. There was a killer inside of me, I knew that now. There’s a killer inside everyone if you probe deeply enough; my killer was strong and he sent out a red haze when he wanted to escape.
He wanted to escape now. And the only way to prevent that was to turn the razor on him. This whacky town was full of murderers—torso slayers, rippers, maniacs on the loose. It must be something in the air; perhaps the smog was a red haze in disguise.
Well, my killer mustn’t join the rest. I, and I alone, could prevent it, had to prevent it. Because if I went on, sooner or later somebody else would die. I was certain of it.
So I held the razor in my hand and I was ready. It was time to cut loose. Time for the unkindest cut of all. Time to kill the killer—
My headache almost blinded me. It sent sharp pains out against my eyes, but not sharp enough. Not nearly as sharp as the straight edge of my razor, pressing against my throat.
Then the haze was back and I said to myself, “This is the way it feels when you murder, this is what it’s like to be a murderer—and lucky for you that you’re murderer and victim too.”
My hand moved in the haze, and the razor’s edge was sharp. As it came down, I was thinking that the edge of a razor is the sharpest thing in the world.
Then it was the only thing in the world...
Three
Then there was something else in the world, after all. Noise. Knocking. Persistent knocking. And rattling. I could hear it somewhere, a million miles away. Knocking on my door, rattling the knob.
I wouldn’t answer. Maybe the noises would stop if I wouldn’t answer. Then my hand might be steadier and I could go ahead. But not with that thudding— It didn’t stop. I heard a muffled voice outside. What right did anyone have to interfere? I still didn’t have to open the door. This was my business.
“Go away!” I yelled.
The doorknob rattled again. Somebody was knocking on my door, pounding on my head.
I moved into the living room. The voice was now plainly audible.
“Open up—I want to see you.”
“No!”
Silence. I stood there, waiting for the sound of receding footsteps. Another moment now and I’d be alone again. Another moment and I could walk back into the bathroom and— I heard rustling. Something was sliding under the door. Something green slithered into view. I had to move closer, had to look down at it, had to see what it was. I stared. It was a hundred-dollar bill.
I bent down and picked it up in my left hand, the free hand. There was magic in the feel of it; I stopped trembling the moment my skin came into contact with the crispness. I could see it quite clearly and the pain behind my eyes receded. Who said money can’t work miracles? Miracles from outside the door. Opportunity knocks but once...
I turned the bolt, opened the door. He came in. The little guy, Peter Lorre. Only it wasn’t Peter Lorre. This man was bald. He had taken his hat off and the light from the bathroom shone on an absolutely hairless skull. If a fly lit on his head, it would slip and break an ankle.
I didn’t really think that; there was no room in my mind for a gag then. All I could do was stand there and look at him while I tried to slip the razor into my pocket.
He turned on the living room light, walked over to the sofa, sat down, and pulled out the monocle. This time it didn’t hurt my eyes. Nothing hurt my eyes. I could feel the hundred dollar bill in my hand.
The little guy looked up at me and smiled. “You are Eddie Haines,” he said. “Delighted to meet you. I am Professor Hermann.”
My left hand held the money, and my right hand stayed in my pocket with the razor. So I merely nodded at his introduction. Then all at once I felt that I must sit down. I took the chair. He watched me, still smiling.
“You will pardon my intrusion. I tried to call, but it seems your telephone has been disconnected. And it was important that I see you.”
“How did you get here?”
He waved his hand, the one with the diamond ring on the little finger. I wasn’t so sure it was a fake diamond any more.
“Mr. Rickert gave me your name and address. You remember, I was in his office this afternoon. You wouldn’t talk to me, but I went there for just that reason. I was looking for you, Mr. Haines.”
“But why?”
“I heard your voice on an audition record. That is what so interested me.”
“Are you in radio, Professor?”
“No. But I am interested in voices. I have something in mind which may also interest you.”
He had already interested me. Anybody who shoved hundred-dollar bills under my door interested me a lot. I’m funny that way.
I was sobering up. I started to withdraw my right hand from my pocket and nicked my finger on the straight edge of the razor. I forced a grin as I swabbed at the blood with a handkerchief.
“Afraid I must apologize to you,” I said. “You see, I was shaving when you rang. Came out in such a hurry I was still carrying my razor, and I stuck it in my pocket. Forgot all about it just now and cut myself a little.”
Professor Hermann nodded gravely. “I see there are some things I will have to teach you. Such as learning how to tell a lie.”
“What do you mean by that crack?”
“My dear young man! You’ll find it’s no use trying to deceive me. I happen to know you weren’t shaving. You were getting ready to cut your throat.”
I gaped at him and he chuckled. “And that would have been very stupid of you, my friend. Very, very stupid. Because you and I are going to make a million dollars— together.”
“When? Where? How?”
“I’ll tell you all about it at dinner,” he promised.
And that’s why I put on my coat and went out with him. That’s why we sat in the little restaurant until almost nine, eating and talking.
I did most of the talking, at first. The Professor didn’t say much, beyond encouraging me to tell about myself. I was perfectly willing to do so, as long as I could feel the crispness of that hundred-dollar bill in my pocket.