A man in a dark suit is sitting at his desk (a custom-made desk, mahogany, very solid, very beautiful). Now, this man is not just any man. He is special, and it’s not because of his desk. In a startling subversion of the human condition, this man is utterly content!
“There are only three things any person should look for in life: a good beer, a tastefully furnished room, and a nice suit.” The man has spent his whole life living by this credo. Currently in his possession: several thousand kegs of good beer, many nicely-furnished rooms scattered throughout the city; and hundreds upon hundreds of impeccable suits. Hence the satisfaction.
Never mind the fact that the man’s beer had been bought with (and sold for) blood, that his rooms were housing some worse-than-unsavory characters, and that his many suits had at one time or another been stained with blood. The man in the dark suit has never cared much for the details.
There is a mildly annoying dripping coming from somewhere in the ceiling. Rain? Faulty plumbing? The man doesn’t know, and doesn’t particularly care, because it’s sunset in the city, and the streets are swathed with ribbons of shimmering gold and bloody crimson—or at least that’s what the man in the dark suit is thinking, anyways (He fancies himself a poet). On that note he opens the right drawer of his desk and takes out a few pages of paper. One of the finer things in life is poetry. Any gentleman worth his spit should occasionally partake in putting their mind to the sheaf.
The man writes into the night. He has been taken by a creative fervor the likes of which he has never known before. He has filled three pages when there is a knock on the door.
From outside the door comes a muffled “Delivery for you, sir.”
“Come on in,” the man mumbles. The door opens, and three seconds another man walks in.
The other man is holding a gun. Shots ring out.
***
When the body is found, the finder does not go to the police, as one might expect in a case like this. They instead rush to their room, pick up a bright blue telephone and dial a number.
“The Mallard’s been stuffed. Stuffed and mounted.”
Silence on the other end.
“What should I--”
“Be quiet.” A gravelly voice on the other end. “And stay put. We’re sending someone over. You understand you will be punished after all this is over?”
“…I’m ready to accept the consequences.” The finder hangs up, the conversation over. He sprawls of the floor and sighs.
***
A few hours later a black automobile grumbles to a stop in front of the building where the man was found. A scruffy man in a brown overcoat climbs out and tramps up the steps. The car zooms off. Three brisk knocks.
The finder opens the door, and the two men greet each other, all business. The finder leads the man in the overcoat into the parlor, through the kitchen and up the stairs. They walk down a long hallway and arrive, finally, at the door to the study.
“I found him here. I was in the parlor like usual, watching the door, when I heard gunshots. I ran up the stairs but by the time I’d gotten there they’d already left through the window.” The finder opens the door, and the scruffy man walks into the study.
The study is a small rectangular room, dominated by the massive mahogany desk in the back. Bookshelves line the walls on either side. A large picture window covers most of the wall behind the desk, but one of its three large glass panels has been shattered. Glass shards and blood litter the floor.
Slumped in the chair behind the desk is a bloody corpse. The body is drenched in blood. The face isn’t visible because of the positioning of the body. It wears a suit, undamaged aside from the blood soaked into its linen folds.
The scruffy man looks over the scene once, twice, three times, nods. He starts by walking over to the bookshelves. The bookshelves are well organized, not filled to the brim but neatly filed. He runs his fingers over the spines. He turns to the finder.
“Impressive collection.”
“He was an avid reader.” The scruffy man holds up his hand and blows on it, releasing a small cloud of dust.
“Somehow I doubt it.” He turns back to the bookshelves. “How are these organized?”
“Alphabetical order.”
“Hm. You reckon I could take a peek at some of his stuff? I’ve never read. A, B, …E. Hm. I don’t see anything by him here.”
“You know how artists are. He disowned his work as fast as he could churn it out. The creator’s curse, if you will.” The finder gestures to the desk. “Now, if you could be so kind as to—“
“Yeah, yeah.” The scruffy man walks over to the table, which is covered in congealed blood. Some papers are visible under the mess. He pokes at the body, lifts up the head. “Where’s his face?”
“All over the walls and floor, I’m assuming.”
“…Yeah.” Where the body’s face should be is a gaping wound. The flesh has been gouged away, the bone behind it caved in and shattered. A thin crust of grey matter covers everything.
The scruffy man does some poking and prodding, and looks over the desk.
“Say, do you know what the guy was working on when he got killed?”
“Not exactly, no. My job description is just to keep him out of trouble. I don’t really talk much with him myself.”
“The hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You could say I’m a kind of bodyguard. As one of the most famous poets in the city, he has many admirers and many enemies too.”
“No, I mean do you know what he was doing, or not? It’s a yes-or-no question.”
“He writes.” The scruffy man lifts up the papers on the desk. Some are stuck together, but the pages not at the top of the pile are still intact. They’re all blank.
“Somehow I doubt it.” He sniffs and turns to the window. “Well, at the very least it’s obvious he was shot.” He looks at the glass lying on the floor, leans out the window. “So let me get this straight: You think the killer leapt in through this window, killed our guy, and then leapt out as you arrived.” The finder nods. “Why go to all this trouble? He could have shot him in the street, at night on his way home from the bar, whatever he wanted. Why here, where the evidence will stay intact?”
“Well, you see, he usually doesn’t leave the house.”
The scruffy man raises his eyebrows. “The papers call him a real party animal.”
“All his parties were held here, in-house. He never left if he could help it.”
“Never heard of that part of the story.” The scruffy man looked around. “In fact, I’ve never heard of this place.”
“He was a very private man. A bit of a paradox. People were sworn to as much secrecy as could be bought.”
“Mm-hm.” The scruffy man turns and walks out of the study. The finder hurries after him.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve heard and seen enough.”
“What do you mean? You haven’t found out who killed him!”
“Well, there isn’t an answer to that question.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s not dead. Just gone.”
A short pause.
“Then who’s the dead guy?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Stop.” The finder’s tone has changed—no more business, no more politeness. It’s steely. “I don’t have time for your bullshit. Get back in that room and figure out what happened or they’ll have my head.”
The scruffy man stops at the head of the stairs, inclines his head. “Who’s they?”
“The ones who sent you. The guys who own this place. The people who own everything in this city, idiot. Who else? They want to know who did this and why. I’m already in enough hot water as is, and I can’t have you going rogue on me.” All of a sudden there’s a gun in his hand.
“I already know who did this, if you really want to know,” mumbles the scruffy man. He scratches his head. “I just can’t seem to understand why.”
“Spit it out,” says the finder.
“It was you, of course. You and your mark.” The scruffy man takes a step down the stairs. The finder cocks the gun. The click of metal on metal echoes through the stairwell.
“You really think I wasn’t briefed before I was sent here? You think they are that stupid? You think they would be that careless about an insult like this? Jesus.” The scruffy man takes another step.
The finder says nothing.
“You aren’t his goddamn bodyguard. You’re his guard, alright—a prison guard. He gets to have his parties but can’t leave this house because you won’t let him. But you still pamper him, let him have his parties, let him have his books, because you need him to write. Because they love his writing.”
“His writing is phenomenal, yes” says the finder softly. His gun is still trained on the scruffy man’s head.
“But he got tired of being a caged bird, tired of being some kind of trinket for them. He decided to escape, get out of town.” Another step. “And that’s where you came in.”
“I don’t see your meaning.” Almost a whisper now. The gun gleams.
“I don’t know why but he somehow got your turned around into helping him. You grabbed some patsy off the street with the same build as your man, then turned him into oatmeal and put him down on the chair.”
“Then how do you explain the blood? Blood all over, and the body the source…”
A pause, another step. “Simple, really. You killed the patsy right here, in this room. He sat in this chair and you or your man killed him dead.”
A chuckle from the top of the stairs. “Rather brilliant of you. But what man would willingly sit for his own execution? I don’t see much reason in that.”
“Obvious. You told him to come into this room, but not to be killed. He had no idea about that. Probably it was to try and steal something from the desk drawers. Then while he was sitting in the chair, rifling through the drawers, you shot him.” Another step.
“But then explain the suit. Why would any would-be thief wear such an ungainly suit to a robbery? Surely not to fool the master of the house, who has so few visitors when not holding parties…”
“You just said it yourself. It was during a party. No one knows who you are. In the midst of it all you find someone with the same figure as your man…scratch that, you probably invited him specifically for his figure, and in the midst of the party slip him a few hundreds and tell him to go up to the study and take something from the drawers for you, pretend to be some rival writer or something, follow him up and shoot him dead.” The scruffy man turns on the stairs, ever so slowly, to face the finder. “Isn’t that right?”
The finder’s eyes flash, but his hands do not tremble. “A plausible scenario. But then, how did the partygoers not hear this gunshot?”
The scruffy man looks at the finder. “They…you hid it. Somehow” His eyes widen. “Or…you didn’t.”
“Whatever could you mean?”
“You gave yourself away. You said you were in the parlor watching the door when you heard shots. Shots. Plural. The man in the study has only one wound—the hole in his head. So then what happened to the other bullets?” The scruffy man looks stoic, but his eyes are troubled. “There’s only one possible conclusion.”
“And it is…?”
“You killed everyone at that party. No witnesses--”
The finder laughs. “Foolish. Say I went on a shooting spree to stop anyone from reporting the one shot in the study. What is to stop the neighbours from hearing those shots and reporting them? Surely a barrage of gunshots coming from the house next to yours is something to be concerned about?” With the light at the top of the stairs behind him his face is a void. The gun glints.
A bead of sweat works its way down the scruffy man’s forehead. “A simple matter to resolve should you invite everyone in the neighborhood to the party.”
The finder hisses. “Hmm…seems you have me cornered.” He trains the gun on the scruffy man. “Yes, I admit it! I held a party here on that day, and shot a man in the study, and then afterwards killed everyone else to remove all the witnesses! But pray tell,” he says, “before I end your pitiful life, how then, was that window broken?”
“There were a variety of ways you could have done it. After all, you had all the time in the world after you slaughtered all the neighbours. You could have thrown a rock from the outside, or any number of things. Just a poorly made distraction.”
“Ha-ha-ha, yes. Very poorly done, no match for one of your intellect…intriguing, very intriguing.” The finder licks his lips. “I’m having fun. Lots of fun. Are you?” No response from the scruffy man, whose eyes are locked on the gaping maw of the finder’s pistol. “Fine. One more question. How are you so sure the man I killed was not my man? Just tell me that and it will soon be over, all over…”
“Simple. First, the missing books on the bookshelves. The book’s spines were dusty but the covers weren’t. They’d been pushed about, to give the impression of being packed tightly together. And the blank pages on the desk, which you’d tried to disguise with the blood. He may have disowned his work like you said, but that didn’t mean he didn’t care about it. When you helped him split he took his most recent work and all his collections with him. Not to mention, on your own you don’t have any reason to kill him. All you had to do was do your job and watch him. So…what changed?”
“Clever, clever as always.” The finder takes a step down the stairs. His pistol moves with him. “Yes, you’re right. I did it all to help my master escape. At first, I was just some mere thug. Hired muscle, to protect and smother. But the most jagged of stones will become smooth when exposed to the constant drip of pure water. My master is a genius. An utter genius. He has broadened my mind. I would do, and have done, everything for him. His work cannot flourish under their oppressive grip, he made me realize that.” The finder stops. Suddenly, he takes his pistol and holds it butt-first out towards the scruffy man, who almost loses his composure at the shock. “If you have any more questions, you’ll need something to threaten me with, yes?”
The scruffy man takes the gun, with trembling hands. The finder grins widely.
A hollow bang rings through the house and the finder flies backwards, his head smashing against the top of the stairwell. A bloody hole has appeared in his stomach. He presses his hand on the wound and begins to laugh.
The scruffy man takes aim again when the finder holds up a hand in surrender. “Stop,” he wheezes. “I won’t trouble you any longer. Just let me thank you.”
“What?”
“You’ve played your part wonderfully, just like master said you would.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Ha…ha…ha. It’s like I said! My master is a genius. An utter genius. But…he is also a romantic, you see. That is what makes him so amazing. He understands the power of the pure idea. That is why I love him, and that is why they love him. He could have easily made this the perfect crime, set it up so that he would have been written off forever. But he didn’t want that, oh no. He wanted those who had known his work in life not to disrespect him in death. Because he wanted to send a message. He wanted people to know of his daring plan, of his ingenuity in opposing them. So he crafted flaws, minute yet obvious flaws, ones that would attract perfectly the kind of mind they would send for an incident like this.” A rattling cough. “This way, you found out and will tell them what happened here. They will understand that he defied them and escaped. The word will spread to the people, and they will value and revere my master and his work all the more for his courage. And you have also killed me. Me, the one who organized my master’s escape, who paid for his transport and the shipping of his belongings. Now, I the humble servant, will gain the quick death I deserve, and will rob them of a target to torture the whereabouts of my master out of.” He locks eyes with the scruffy man. “He knew you, you know. Knew you were the best. Knew you didn’t care much for them, that you were just doing your job. Knew you would kill me, out of disgust for what I had done.” His words are beginning to become garbled now, from the blood bubbling up from his throat. “You can’t call them here in time. I’ll be dead either way. You’d do best to shoot me again. Painless death is the least I can ask for. I let you live, after all.” The finder smiles, teeth stained a blood red.
The scruffy man looks down at the finder. His eyes are full of disgust…and maybe a hint of admiration.
“I’ll find him regardless. No matter what kind of genius he is. I’m the best they have. They’ll send for me again in a few days and tell me to hunt him down, your master. And I’ll be damned if I don’t.”
“Ha-ha-ha. He told me that you are perfectly welcome to try. Only you, though! Only you! He knows you better than anyone else. It is going to be so romantic-“
The finder’s head explodes in a shower of gore.
The scruffy man walks down to the kitchen and pours himself a shot of whiskey.
He takes a sip and shivers.
He heaves a great sigh and listens to the silence for a few minutes. It’s a very quiet neighbourhood, he thinks for a moment, and it is a wonder no one had reported the shots to the police before he had arrived here. Then he remembers and retches slightly.
He drinks in silence.
Then he reaches for the telephone.
