The Strange Case of Mr. Pruyn
by William F. Nolan
Before she could scream, his hand had closed over her mouth. Grinning, he drove a knee into her stomach and stepped quickly back, letting her spill writhing to the floor at his feet. He watched her gasp for breath.
Like a fish out of water, he thought, like a damn fish out of water.
He took off his blue service cap and wiped sweat from the leather band. Hot. Damned hot. He looked down at the girl. She was rolling, bumping the furniture, fighting to breathe. She wouldn’t be able to scream until she got her breath back, and by then...
He moved across the small living room to a chair and opened a black leather toolbag he had placed there. He hesitated, looked back at her.
“For you,” he said, smiling over his shoulder. “Just for you.”
He slowly withdrew a long-bladed hunting knife from the bag and held it up for her to see.
She emitted small gasping sounds; her eyes bugged and her mouth opened and closed, chopping at air.
You’re not beautiful anyway, he thought, moving toward her with the knife. Pretty, but not beautiful. Beautiful women shouldn’t die. Too rare. Sad to see beauty die. But, you...
He stood above her, looking down. Face all red and puffy. No lipstick. Not even pretty now. No prize package when she’d opened the door. If she’d been beautiful he would have gone on, told her he’d made a mistake, and gone on to the next apartment. But, she was nothing. Hair in pin curls. Apron. Nothing.
He knelt, caught her arm and pulled her to him. “Don’t worry,” he told her. “This will be quick.”
He did not stop smiling.
“A Mr. Pruyn out front, sir. Says he’s here about the Sloane case.”
“Send him on in,” said Lieutenant Norman Bendix. He sighed and leaned back wearily in his swivel chair.
Hell, he thought, another one. My four-year-old kid could come in here and give me better stories. Stabbed her to death with my fountain pen, Daddy. Nuts!
Fifteen years with the force and he’d talked to dozens of Dopey Joes who “confessed” to unsolved murders they’d read about in the papers with Ben Franklin’s kisser on it. Oh, once he’d struck oil. Guy turned out to be telling the truth. All the facts checked out. Freak. Murderers are not likely to come in and tell the police all about how they did it. Usually it’s a guy with a souped-up imagination and a few drinks too many under his belt. This Sloane case was a prime example. Five “confessions” already. Five duds.
Marcia Sloane. 27. Housewife. Dead in her apartment. Broad daylight. Her throat cut. No motives. No clues. Husband at work. Nobody saw anybody. Score to date: 0.
Bendix swore. Damn the papers! Rags. Splash gore all over the front page. All the gory details. Except, thought Bendix, the little ones, the ones that count. At least they didn’t get those. Like the fact that the Sloane girl had exactly twenty-one cuts on her body below the throat; like the fact that her stomach bore a large bruise. She’d been kicked, and kicked hard, before her death. Little details — that only the killer would know. So, what happens? So a half-dozen addled pin-heads rush in to “confess” and I’m the boy that has to listen. Mr. Ears. Well, Norm kid, somebody’s got to listen. Part of the daily grind.
Lieutenant Norman Bendix shook out a cigarette, lit it, and watched the office door open.
“Here he is, Lieutenant.”
Bendix leaned forward across the desk, folding his hands. The cigarette jerked with his words. “Come in, Mr. Pruyn, come in.”
A small man stood uneasily before the desk, bald, smiling nervously, twisting a gray felt hat.
About thirty-one or so, guessed Bendix. Probably a recluse. Lives alone in a small apartment. No hobbies. Broods a lot. They don’t have to say a word. I can spot one a mile away.
“Are you the gentleman I’m to see about my murder?” asked the small man. His voice was high and uncertain. He blinked rapidly behind thick-rimmed glasses.
“I’m your man, Mr. Pruyn. Bendix is the name. Lieutenant Bendix. Won’t you sit down?”
Bendix indicated a leather chair.
“Pruyn. Like in sign,” said the bald little man. “Everyone mispronounces it, you know. An easy name to get wrong. But it’s Pruyn. Emery T. Pruyn.” He sat down.
“Well, Mr. Pruyn.” Bendix was careful to get the name right. “Want to go ahead?”
“Uh — I do hope you are the correct gentleman. I should hate to repeat it all to someone else. I abhor repetition, you know.” He blinked at Bendix.
“Believe me, I’m your man. Now, go ahead with your story.”
Sure, Bendix thought, rave away. This office lacks one damned important item: a leather couch. He offered the small man a cigarette.
“Oh, no. No thank you, Lieutenant. I don’t smoke.”
Or murder, either, Bendix added in his mind. All you do, Blinky, is read the papers.
“Is it true, Lieutenant, that the police have absolutely no clues to work on?”
“That’s what it said in the papers. They get the facts, Mr. Pruyn.”
“Yes. Well... I was naturally curious as to the job I had done.” He paused to adjust his glasses. “May I assure you, from the outset, that I am indeed the guilty party. The crime of murder is on my hands.”
Bendix nodded. Okay, Blinky, I’m impressed.
“I — uh — suppose you’ll want to take my story down on tape or wire or however you—”
Bendix smiled. “Officer Barnhart will take down what you say. Learned shorthand in Junior High, didn’t you, Pete?”
Barnhart grinned from the back of the room.
Emery Pruyn glanced nervously over his shoulder at the uniformed policeman seated near the door. “Oh,” he said, “I didn’t realize that the officer had remained. I thought that he — left.”
“He’s very quiet,” said Bendix, exhaling a cloud of pale blue cigarette smoke. “Go on with your story, Mr. Pruyn.”
“Of course. Yes. Well — I know I don’t look like a murderer, Lieutenant Bendix, but then—” he chuckled softly, “—we seldom look like what we really are. Murderers, after all, can look like anybody.”
Bendix fought back a yawn. Why do these jokers pick late afternoon to unload? God, he was hungry. If I let this character ramble on, I’ll be here all night. Helen will blow her stack if I’m late for dinner again. Better pep things up. Ask him some leading questions.
“How did you get into Mrs. Sloane’s apartment?”
“Disguise,” said Pruyn with a shy smile. He sat forward in the leather chair. “I posed as a television man.”
“You mean a television repair man?”
“Oh, no. Then I should never have gained entry since I had no way of knowing whether Mrs. Sloane had called a repair man. No, I took the role of a television representative. I told Mrs. Sloane that her name had been chosen at random, along with four others in that vicinity, for a free converter.”
“Converter?”
“To convert black and white television to color television. I read about them.”
“I see. She let you in?”
“Oh, yes. She was utterly convinced, grateful that her name had been chosen, all excited and talking fast. You know, like women do.”
Bendix nodded.
“Told me to come right in, that her husband would be delighted when he got home and found out what she’d won. Said it would be a wonderful surprise for him.” Mr. Pruyn smiled. “I walked right in carrying my bag and wearing some blue coveralls and a cap I’d bought the day before. Oh — do you want the name and address of the clothing store in order to verify—”