blood, once let loose, gets all over the place. It sticks, it flows, it garishly advertises itself or accumulates in dark thick puddles. Once it gets going, there is no stopping blood.
It was a description by Lucky, finally, of the blood all over his trousers, of the blood oozing from the mailbag, that had inclined Hildegard to believe that he was indeed the Lucan who was wanted for homicide. Walker, on the other hand, was reluctant to describe the murder. He had now told Hildegard that, yes, he had “performed the deed,” and he had even gone into some of the already well-publicized details. Walker sometimes sounded like a printed column out of a tabloid Sunday edition. “I thought it convenient at that stage to rid myself of a wife that I had come to loathe. She had custody of my children. A ridiculous member of your profession, Dr. Wolf, gave evidence in her favor in a court of law. I lost my children. I was allowed to see them twice a month-imagine! I could have sold the house at Lower Belgrave Street to pay off some of my debts. She was evil, she was mad, but the court would not recognize it.”
“Tell me about the murder.”
“Oh, I suppose it was a murder like any other murder.” Perhaps these were the words of a hit man. Perhaps and maybe. But, Hildegard noted, they were hardly a killer’s words. And yet, their coldness might fit in with the Lucan known to the public, his mad-cold calculative mind.
But behind it all, at this stage, was blackmail. Blackmail between Lucan and Walker, with Walker the probable blackmailer, and now blackmail of herself: they needed money. What else did they need? Probably a psychiatrist’s counseling and comfort?-Yes, probably that, too. And perhaps a sympathetic psychiatrist to testify in the event of a court case.
The last witness to see Lucan after the murder gave evidence at the inquest on the death of Sandra Rivett that Lucan had told her how an unknown intruder had attacked his wife and presumably killed the nanny, he himself having passed the house by chance and intervened. According to the witness, she had the impression that he “felt rather squeamish about the blood and did not want to look too closely at the sack.”
All right, Lucky was squeamish. Hildegard’s story, also dripping in blood, had evidently given him further reason for his squeams. “You covered your hands, side and feet with your menstrual blood, Dr. Wolf.” He had found the courage to come out with that statement, squeamish or not. He had said it in an almost confidential way: we’re both in this blood-business together, he seemed to say. Walker, however, had merely referred to “Your past, Hildegard Wolf, or should I say Beate Pappenheim?” When Lucky had first walked into her office, Hildegard was immediately taken with his resemblance to her prior Lucan patient, Walker. They were not indistinguishable, but they might have been brothers. And certainly, both were white-haired, aging photos of the thirty-nine-year-old Lucan which looked out of the pages of the quantity of books and press articles written about him from year to year since his disappearance in 1974. Was the real Lucan dead, as numerous people claimed? If he wasn’t, how did he materially survive? Walker himself had never claimed that he presented himself to Lucan’s friends. It was usually Lucky who periodically collected sums of money, deposited at certain places, with certain people, by rich friends. Friends-how could they be deceived if they had once known Lucan? “Easy,” Walker had explained. “They expect Lucan to have undergone surgical modifications to his features. They are right. Your other Lucan patient is a fraud, Dr.
Wolf. He also goes collecting, as you can imagine.”
“But you work together.”
“Of course. If one of us were caught, it would always be the other, the absent Lucan who would be the real one.”
“And your voices? Don’t your friends suspect from the voice?”
“Lucan is known to be
It was a description by Lucky, finally, of the blood all over his trousers, of the blood oozing from the mailbag, that had inclined Hildegard to believe that he was indeed the Lucan who was wanted for homicide. Walker, on the other hand, was reluctant to describe the murder. He had now told Hildegard that, yes, he had “performed the deed,” and he had even gone into some of the already well-publicized details. Walker sometimes sounded like a printed column out of a tabloid Sunday edition. “I thought it convenient at that stage to rid myself of a wife that I had come to loathe. She had custody of my children. A ridiculous member of your profession, Dr. Wolf, gave evidence in her favor in a court of law. I lost my children. I was allowed to see them twice a month-imagine! I could have sold the house at Lower Belgrave Street to pay off some of my debts. She was evil, she was mad, but the court would not recognize it.”
“Tell me about the murder.”
“Oh, I suppose it was a murder like any other murder.” Perhaps these were the words of a hit man. Perhaps and maybe. But, Hildegard noted, they were hardly a killer’s words. And yet, their coldness might fit in with the Lucan known to the public, his mad-cold calculative mind.
But behind it all, at this stage, was blackmail. Blackmail between Lucan and Walker, with Walker the probable blackmailer, and now blackmail of herself: they needed money. What else did they need? Probably a psychiatrist’s counseling and comfort?-Yes, probably that, too. And perhaps a sympathetic psychiatrist to testify in the event of a court case.
The last witness to see Lucan after the murder gave evidence at the inquest on the death of Sandra Rivett that Lucan had told her how an unknown intruder had attacked his wife and presumably killed the nanny, he himself having passed the house by chance and intervened. According to the witness, she had the impression that he “felt rather squeamish about the blood and did not want to look too closely at the sack.”
All right, Lucky was squeamish. Hildegard’s story, also dripping in blood, had evidently given him further reason for his squeams. “You covered your hands, side and feet with your menstrual blood, Dr. Wolf.” He had found the courage to come out with that statement, squeamish or not. He had said it in an almost confidential way: we’re both in this blood-business together, he seemed to say. Walker, however, had merely referred to “Your past, Hildegard Wolf, or should I say Beate Pappenheim?” When Lucky had first walked into her office, Hildegard was immediately taken with his resemblance to her prior Lucan patient, Walker. They were not indistinguishable, but they might have been brothers. And certainly, both were white-haired, aging photos of the thirty-nine-year-old Lucan which looked out of the pages of the quantity of books and press articles written about him from year to year since his disappearance in 1974. Was the real Lucan dead, as numerous people claimed? If he wasn’t, how did he materially survive? Walker himself had never claimed that he presented himself to Lucan’s friends. It was usually Lucky who periodically collected sums of money, deposited at certain places, with certain people, by rich friends. Friends-how could they be deceived if they had once known Lucan? “Easy,” Walker had explained. “They expect Lucan to have undergone surgical modifications to his features. They are right. Your other Lucan patient is a fraud, Dr.
Wolf. He also goes collecting, as you can imagine.”
“But you work together.”
“Of course. If one of us were caught, it would always be the other, the absent Lucan who would be the real one.”
“And your voices? Don’t your friends suspect from the voice?”
“Lucan is known to be
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