Uilyam Nolan - The Strange Case of Mr. Pruyn

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 wouldnt 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.

Youre not beautiful anyway, he thought, moving toward her with the knife. Pretty, but not beautiful. Beautiful women shouldnt 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 shed opened the door. If shed been beautiful he would have gone on, told her hed 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. Dont worry, he told her. This will be quick.

He did not stop smiling.

A Mr. Pruyn out front, sir. Says hes 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 hed talked to dozens of Dopey Joes who confessed to unsolved murders theyd read about in the papers with Ben Franklins kisser on it. Oh, once hed 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 its 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 didnt 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. Shed 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 Im the boy that has to listen. Mr. Ears. Well, Norm kid, somebodys 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 dont have to say a word. I can spot one a mile away.

Are you the gentleman Im to see about my murder? asked the small man. His voice was high and uncertain. He blinked rapidly behind thick-rimmed glasses.

Im your man, Mr. Pruyn. Bendix is the name. Lieutenant Bendix. Wont 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 its 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, Im 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 dont 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?

Thats 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, Im impressed.

I uh suppose youll 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, didnt 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 didnt realize that the officer had remained. I thought that he left.

Hes 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 dont 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, Ill be here all night. Helen will blow her stack if Im late for dinner again. Better pep things up. Ask him some leading questions.

How did you get into Mrs. Sloanes 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 shed 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 Id bought the day before. Oh do you want the name and address of the clothing store in order to verify

That wont be necessary at the moment, Bendix cut in. Just tell us about the crime first. Well have time to pick up the details later.

Oh, well, fine. I just thought well, I put down my bag and

Bag?

Yes. I carry a wrench and things in the bag.

What for?

To use as murder weapons, smiled Pruyn, blinking. I like to take them all along each time and use the one that fits.