three-legged dog said.
Then I left the park and went to Mr. Kindt’s.
Oh, let’s get you cleaned up, he said.
When we were out of the bathroom and sitting over cups of Lapsang souchong in the living room, he asked me how the meeting had gone. I said it had gone well. My head felt like someone had started a lobotomy on it, and I felt like throwing up, but otherwise it had been very pleasant and extremely informative.
I don’t know her terribly well myself, but Cornelius recommends her highly, Mr. Kindt said.
I can see why he does.
I’ve had the privilege of seeing her at her work. She’s very good. She is able to lull her victims into acquiescence merely, it seems, by speaking to them.
She’s bald, I said.
I watched the corners of Mr. Kindt’s mouth rise then fall, but just slightly. We sipped at our tea. Mr. Kindt asked me if, in light of the meeting, that is, he said, in light of being insulted by a beautifully, if artificially, proportioned young woman and getting shot at by same with a blank plus paint pellet in the face, I was interested in committing further murders. I told him that I was on again that very night.
Excellent, he said, wincing a little. I asked him what was wrong. He said Tulip had been “drawing” on him. That the drawings—there were more than one of them—were rather large. That I could see them when they were finished, that they didn’t look like much just now.
Do you think it’s going to be the knockout again? Because I’d love to take another crack at killing her.
The knockout? he said. That’s actually quite funny and rather appropriate, isn’t it, my boy? he said. I am told that she very much enjoys applying the odd blunt object to people’s nerve endings when she invites them into unconsciousness at the end of her sessions.
That’s a different kind of knockout than the one I was talking about, I said.
Of course, Henry, he said.
He then said that, even in the case of trial runs, of little tests, as mine had been, Cornelius observed a strict one-murder-per-victim rule. Cornelius was not interested in fetishists. They tended to be somewhat too public about their pastimes.
He told me he murdered you.
I suppose that in a manner of speaking that is true. One could also argue that it was a collaborative effort, a joint exertion. That we both sped me into the other world. But no matter.
How long has he been doing this?
In its current incarnation, it’s a fairly recent development, at least as these things go. My murder, however, the one that planted the seed, occurred a very long time ago.
When you were still living in Cooperstown?
Yes. It must have been.
Mr. Kindt’s voice drifted off a little at the end of this and we sat in a silence that lasted until Mr. Kindt let out a soft belch then said excuse me.
Certainly, I said. Then I asked if Cornelius ever got up to anything besides show murders.
Mr. Kindt laughed, then stopped laughing, then let his thin little lips resolve into the position they had held earlier.
Because Anthony said last night he was just supposed to deliver a warning, but that it turned into a murder.
Mr. Kindt’s lips didn’t move.
What kind of murder was it—the kind I’m getting involved with and just had done to me, or the other kind? I asked.
Ask me something else, dear boy, he said.
It didn’t have anything to do with those guys we bumped into at the Indian restaurant that time, did it?
Mr. Kindt looked confused for a moment, then burst out laughing and said,
really,
Henry! What sort of a person do you take me for?
I told him, in so many words, that I took him for a friend.
That’s absolutely right. I am your friend. Now enough of such silliness. We’ve already established that, with my help, Cornelius murdered me long ago and, as you can see, I’m still very much here.
He bent his arm, held it up, and gestured for me to feel it. I did. It was surprisingly firm and definitely there.
Wow, I said.
Mr. Kindt said that
Then I left the park and went to Mr. Kindt’s.
Oh, let’s get you cleaned up, he said.
When we were out of the bathroom and sitting over cups of Lapsang souchong in the living room, he asked me how the meeting had gone. I said it had gone well. My head felt like someone had started a lobotomy on it, and I felt like throwing up, but otherwise it had been very pleasant and extremely informative.
I don’t know her terribly well myself, but Cornelius recommends her highly, Mr. Kindt said.
I can see why he does.
I’ve had the privilege of seeing her at her work. She’s very good. She is able to lull her victims into acquiescence merely, it seems, by speaking to them.
She’s bald, I said.
I watched the corners of Mr. Kindt’s mouth rise then fall, but just slightly. We sipped at our tea. Mr. Kindt asked me if, in light of the meeting, that is, he said, in light of being insulted by a beautifully, if artificially, proportioned young woman and getting shot at by same with a blank plus paint pellet in the face, I was interested in committing further murders. I told him that I was on again that very night.
Excellent, he said, wincing a little. I asked him what was wrong. He said Tulip had been “drawing” on him. That the drawings—there were more than one of them—were rather large. That I could see them when they were finished, that they didn’t look like much just now.
Do you think it’s going to be the knockout again? Because I’d love to take another crack at killing her.
The knockout? he said. That’s actually quite funny and rather appropriate, isn’t it, my boy? he said. I am told that she very much enjoys applying the odd blunt object to people’s nerve endings when she invites them into unconsciousness at the end of her sessions.
That’s a different kind of knockout than the one I was talking about, I said.
Of course, Henry, he said.
He then said that, even in the case of trial runs, of little tests, as mine had been, Cornelius observed a strict one-murder-per-victim rule. Cornelius was not interested in fetishists. They tended to be somewhat too public about their pastimes.
He told me he murdered you.
I suppose that in a manner of speaking that is true. One could also argue that it was a collaborative effort, a joint exertion. That we both sped me into the other world. But no matter.
How long has he been doing this?
In its current incarnation, it’s a fairly recent development, at least as these things go. My murder, however, the one that planted the seed, occurred a very long time ago.
When you were still living in Cooperstown?
Yes. It must have been.
Mr. Kindt’s voice drifted off a little at the end of this and we sat in a silence that lasted until Mr. Kindt let out a soft belch then said excuse me.
Certainly, I said. Then I asked if Cornelius ever got up to anything besides show murders.
Mr. Kindt laughed, then stopped laughing, then let his thin little lips resolve into the position they had held earlier.
Because Anthony said last night he was just supposed to deliver a warning, but that it turned into a murder.
Mr. Kindt’s lips didn’t move.
What kind of murder was it—the kind I’m getting involved with and just had done to me, or the other kind? I asked.
Ask me something else, dear boy, he said.
It didn’t have anything to do with those guys we bumped into at the Indian restaurant that time, did it?
Mr. Kindt looked confused for a moment, then burst out laughing and said,
really,
Henry! What sort of a person do you take me for?
I told him, in so many words, that I took him for a friend.
That’s absolutely right. I am your friend. Now enough of such silliness. We’ve already established that, with my help, Cornelius murdered me long ago and, as you can see, I’m still very much here.
He bent his arm, held it up, and gestured for me to feel it. I did. It was surprisingly firm and definitely there.
Wow, I said.
Mr. Kindt said that
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