gate, watching him from behind the big plate windows as if he were some uniquely privileged initiate of inner mysteries. The sensation of being observed in that fashion pleased him mightily.
Somewhere near 11:00 P.M. , when he could see crowds and activity round the seat assignment desk, he finally thought it prudent to depart the cabin. With the plane still empty, he slung the Val-pac over his shoulder and made his way back to one of the lavatories in the rear. No sooner had he locked the door behind him, than he was slipping quickly out of the purser’s uniform and into his light gray business suit.
Overhead in the lavatory canned music had been switched on through crackling loudspeakers. Watford completed his toilette to a Mantovani rendition of “Beyond the Blue Horizon,” slipped his purser’s uniform into the Val-pac, then sat down on the john and prepared to wait.,
Outside, just beyond the door, he could hear the chatter of two flight attendants prepping their bar carts. Shortly, he heard the bang and clatter of passengers coming aboard, luggage being slammed up into the bays above the seats, outerwear going into the wardrobes, the rattle of glasses. There was a good deal of vibration when the engines were first switched on. A short time later he heard outside doors being sealed and the voice of a stewardess doing the flight-safety drill.
Sitting behind the steel door in the tiny cabinet, he had a sudden fleeting image of himself in the hospital that morning, lying half up in bed while the doctor wagged his finger and fulminated above him. Thinking of his masquerade as Dr. Atwell, the pediatric surgeon, he chuckled to himself and wondered half-regretfully about the nice young couple he had duped, then too, of the zoo and the museum and the sad movie with the sad little husband, and the police waiting outside his front door and the pretty Pan Am ticket agent. What a lot of ground he’d covered that day. “I killed a man,” the phrase came drifting back at him and he was at first uncertain where he’d heard it. Then he recalled. Certainly that’s what the man had said, the chap in the bed next to him at the hospital. But he couldn’t have really said that, Watford reasoned. It was probably just the effects of the anesthesia wearing off. Partial hallucination. Bad dreams and the sudden excitement of that ass Rashower making accusations. “I killed a man,” Watford strained for recall. “… Dropped something or other from the roof.” Oh, he couldn’t have …Probably just bad dreams—coming out of the anesthesia—
The next moment he felt a slight shudder and then the motion of the ship rolling backward, being pushed out onto the runways. All through the taxiing he remained in the lav, and even till after the takeoff when they had reached their cruising altitude of 30,000 feet.
Only then did he step out, then briskly and purposefully make his way to one of the preselected unclaimed seats he had committed to memory. It was at 22B where he finally settled, first, however, hanging his Val-pac, unnoticed by anyone, in one of the outerwear wardrobes.
Settling in with a Time magazine, and graciously accepting the ginger ale he had ordered from the flight attendant, he glanced out the window watching the glittering New York skyline recede behind him, and breathed a long sigh of relief.
15
“To me this is quintessential middle class. Genteel. Fastidious. Efficient. Murder by long distance. Nothing so coarse as the laying on of hands. I’d say your man’s over thirty. More probably into his forties.”
“How can you tell?”
“By the fact that it’s all so clean.”
Mooney scoffed. “About as clean as a meat cleaver.”
“Philosophically, yes. I grant you that. But, practically speaking, as a form of homicide, it’s all extremely neat. Look for black shoes and button-down collars. A man in a gray suit.”
“Not a kid?”
“My God, no.” Dr. Kurt Baum, the police psychiatrist, flung his
Somewhere near 11:00 P.M. , when he could see crowds and activity round the seat assignment desk, he finally thought it prudent to depart the cabin. With the plane still empty, he slung the Val-pac over his shoulder and made his way back to one of the lavatories in the rear. No sooner had he locked the door behind him, than he was slipping quickly out of the purser’s uniform and into his light gray business suit.
Overhead in the lavatory canned music had been switched on through crackling loudspeakers. Watford completed his toilette to a Mantovani rendition of “Beyond the Blue Horizon,” slipped his purser’s uniform into the Val-pac, then sat down on the john and prepared to wait.,
Outside, just beyond the door, he could hear the chatter of two flight attendants prepping their bar carts. Shortly, he heard the bang and clatter of passengers coming aboard, luggage being slammed up into the bays above the seats, outerwear going into the wardrobes, the rattle of glasses. There was a good deal of vibration when the engines were first switched on. A short time later he heard outside doors being sealed and the voice of a stewardess doing the flight-safety drill.
Sitting behind the steel door in the tiny cabinet, he had a sudden fleeting image of himself in the hospital that morning, lying half up in bed while the doctor wagged his finger and fulminated above him. Thinking of his masquerade as Dr. Atwell, the pediatric surgeon, he chuckled to himself and wondered half-regretfully about the nice young couple he had duped, then too, of the zoo and the museum and the sad movie with the sad little husband, and the police waiting outside his front door and the pretty Pan Am ticket agent. What a lot of ground he’d covered that day. “I killed a man,” the phrase came drifting back at him and he was at first uncertain where he’d heard it. Then he recalled. Certainly that’s what the man had said, the chap in the bed next to him at the hospital. But he couldn’t have really said that, Watford reasoned. It was probably just the effects of the anesthesia wearing off. Partial hallucination. Bad dreams and the sudden excitement of that ass Rashower making accusations. “I killed a man,” Watford strained for recall. “… Dropped something or other from the roof.” Oh, he couldn’t have …Probably just bad dreams—coming out of the anesthesia—
The next moment he felt a slight shudder and then the motion of the ship rolling backward, being pushed out onto the runways. All through the taxiing he remained in the lav, and even till after the takeoff when they had reached their cruising altitude of 30,000 feet.
Only then did he step out, then briskly and purposefully make his way to one of the preselected unclaimed seats he had committed to memory. It was at 22B where he finally settled, first, however, hanging his Val-pac, unnoticed by anyone, in one of the outerwear wardrobes.
Settling in with a Time magazine, and graciously accepting the ginger ale he had ordered from the flight attendant, he glanced out the window watching the glittering New York skyline recede behind him, and breathed a long sigh of relief.
15
“To me this is quintessential middle class. Genteel. Fastidious. Efficient. Murder by long distance. Nothing so coarse as the laying on of hands. I’d say your man’s over thirty. More probably into his forties.”
“How can you tell?”
“By the fact that it’s all so clean.”
Mooney scoffed. “About as clean as a meat cleaver.”
“Philosophically, yes. I grant you that. But, practically speaking, as a form of homicide, it’s all extremely neat. Look for black shoes and button-down collars. A man in a gray suit.”
“Not a kid?”
“My God, no.” Dr. Kurt Baum, the police psychiatrist, flung his
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