Chapter 12
A DAY HAD passed since the big crisis of Mr. Crispian's life, and he was just starting to think that things were going to get back to normal.
The girl, Kathryn, the one who had invaded the quiet of his apartment with her wanton naked body, had not caused any trouble for him-none that he knew of, anyhow. He assumed that if she had complained to the police about him, he would have heard from them by this time. Perhaps she had thought things over and decided that the safest thing from her point of view was to forget the whole business.
Of course, Mr. Crispian couldn't forget it. It was impossible to blank from his mind the fact that a stark naked sixteen-year-old girl had stood right over there, daring him to take her. Or that he had put his hands on her breasts and gripped those youthfully firm globes of seductive, hard-nippled flesh. Or that he had pushed her, and watched her land on her taut buttocks, with her legs flying apart.
All those things would remain burned into his memory forever. They would join such events in his life as his seduction by the plump woman, Jenny, so many decades ago, and the revolting things his feebleminded sister had forced him to do, and the episode of his love affair with Joanne. In a life that has had as few major events as Mr. Crispian's, nothing of such significance is readily forgotten.
But, he thought, he was going to have no other after-effects besides the memories. He would not have to move. He would not have to give up peeping, or expose his inner nature before the blunt, crude questions of coarse policemen. He would be able to go along as before, he hoped. He had his fingers crossed that no delayed-action booby traps would be waiting for him in the days ahead.
And so, when he got home from a troubled day of work and found that no policemen were lurking on his doorstep, Mr. Crispian allowed himself to slip back into the daily mold of his routine.
He settled down after dinner to scan the apartment windows on the other side of the building. Glancing first at the window of his most dependable victim, the busty blonde girl across the way, Mr. Crispian saw that her light was on. Good. Last night he had missed her, because of that telephone call. And then all his troubles had started.
He examined some of the other windows. Kathryn's was dark. She was probably out with some teen-ager, getting made in a parked car. Mr. Crispian hoped she had a successful outing and came back fully satisfied, all her lusts quenched for the time being. Heaven help him if she returned in another rage of desire. She might come across the courtyard and stir up more problems for him.
There was the blonde now, Mr. Crispian saw.
He watched her as she moved around in the apartment. It was a little too early for her nine o'clock bath, he told himself. Right now she was wearing a smartly tailored suit. He waited patiently, swinging into the mood of expectation that came over him each time he pursued his hobby.
And she was starting to get undressed.
Mr. Crispian frowned. This was one of those rare nights, evidently, when she didn't follow her usual timetable. It was only half past eight. Well, he didn't mind that. He'd get himself a good eyeful. And once he had watched her undress, do her exercises and get into her nightgown, he could safely turn his attention to the other windows without fear of missing anything.
The blonde girl went through her usual nighttime pattern while Mr. Crispian stared in eagerness. She took off garment after garment, carefully hanging each one in the closet. She seemed to be in a happy mood, moving in a gay, lilting rhythm as she stripped.
Now she was down to her slip and underthings. Mr. Crispian's heart raced. The slip came off. She walked to the closet with it. His eyes zeroed in on the cheeks of her buttocks, firm and plump within her white panties.
Now she was turning. Taking off her bra. Baring the mounds of her breasts, full and heavy, tipped with the little cherries of her nipples. Mr. Crispian's face grew flushed. The sight of those big. white breasts reminded him forcibly of another pair, just as beautiful. Kathryn's. The breasts that he had seen at close range last night. The breasts that he had held in his hands.
Which one had better breasts? Mr. Crispian wondered. Kathryn's were slightly smaller, he thought. Not much, though, since both girls had well-developed bosoms. The schoolgirl's breasts were perhaps a trifle higher, closer together. The blonde's breasts were bigger, but they were a bit more widely spaced. The effect of being ten years older than Kathryn, maybe. But in both cases, the bosoms were fabulous, and it was impossible to find fault with either one.
Now the blonde was rolling down her panties.
Though Mr. Crispian had seen this sight a hundred times, he never grew weary of it. The same thrill as always stole over him as he contemplated the smooth columns of the thighs, the flat drumhead of the stomach.
She turned, showing him the luscious mounds of her buttocks. Mr. Crispian waited for the exercises, now. Get down, he thought. Touch your toes, wiggle your hips, make your boobs jump around! But exercises didn't seem to be on the docket tonight. He was going to be denied that fifteen-minute session of twisting, curvaceous flesh.
She slipped into a pink, filmy negligee. Mr. Crispian let out a sigh of disappointment that the show was being concluded so soon. Not that it was entirely over, though. Even across the whole distance of the courtyard. Mr. Crispian was still able to see the white globes of her breasts jouncing inside the gauzy material of the negligee, and when she turned her back to the window he was able to make out the delineation of the cheeks of her delectable buttocks.
Then she vanished for a moment.
While she was gone from sight, Mr. Crispian scanned the other windows, looking for a new victim. Nothing doing. He would have to be patient and hope that the blonde gave him some additional thrills tonight.
He could see her again. She had returned to view, and now she had company. The burly black-haired man, her most frequent visitor, was with her.
They were kissing. It was the kind of kiss that could send sparks flying. Mr. Crispian was a little surprised that the window blinds remained open, because the black-haired man was always quite careful to close them. He had forgotten all about it, it seemed.
He had one hand on the blonde girl's breasts while he kissed her. The other hand was groping at the back of her negligee, pulling it up to get at the bare flesh underneath. Mr. Crispian watched the girl's thighs come into view, and then the lush mounds of her buttocks. The big man's hand clamped down over the white cheeks.
Maybe they'll make love where I can see it, Mr. Crispian thought. Maybe No. It didn't seem that way. The kiss ended, and the black-haired man released her. As he let go of her bunched-up negligee, it fell back into place, concealing the globes of her buttocks.
They were facing each other now, and talking. They seemed to be having an argument. When the blonde came toward him, holding out her hands in an obvious invitation to bed, her breasts heaving, the big man shook her off. The window was partly open, and Mr. Crispian thought he could hear the sounds of angry words passing between them, even though he could not make out the individual words. The man seemed to be doing most of the talking. It was obvious from the furious gestures he was making that they were having a very serious quarrel.
Mr. Crispian's ready imagination supplied a fantasy of what would take place next: Suppose, he thought, they have a fight and he strips her naked, right in front of the window. And then he rapes her. He throws her down into position and forces her while I watch. And then And then Mr. Crispian caught his breath sharply and snapped out of his fantasy as reality took over across the courtyard, the black-haired man put his hands around the blonde's throat and began to squeeze!
He's murdering her, Mr. Crispian thought in shock and disbelief.
Mr. Crispian saw the blonde girl's arms wave frantically, claw at the big man's shoulders, try desperately to push him away. Her big breasts were heav:? wildly. He was shaking her, violently throwing her around, and all the time his hands were locked at her throat. Mr. Crispian thought that he heard a thin, gargling sound that might have been her scream, or might simply have been a figment manufactured by his overheated imagination.
The blonde girl sagged limply in the big black-haired man's arms. They moved away from the window.
Mr. Crispian's eyes bugged. Hard as he peered, it was impossible to see them now. Obviously the black-haired man was finishing the job of killing her. Maybe she was dead already.
Mr. Crispian felt a great sense of sorrow sweep over him, an empty void spring into being within his heart. What if the blonde girl were dead? Whom would he watch undressing every night? She was part of his life, a big part, an essential part. It wasn't fair that some hulking brute should come along and subtract her from his existence so suddenly, so cruelly. I need her, Mr. Crispian thought! She-she belongs to me. She mustn't die!
A long moment passed. Nobody was visible at the girl's window.
Mr. Crispian felt beads of sweat running down his sallow cheeks. He wondered what he should do. He had built his whole life around the principle of minding his own business and keeping out of other people's troubles. Why should he butt in now? It might lead to all sorts of complications for him. On the other hand, the blonde girl's nightly shows of nudity were important to him, and if he sat by idly and let her get murdered, he'd have only himself to blame for the empty nights that followed.
Maybe I should call the police, he thought.
But what would he say to them? Something like, "I was watching a girl undress across the courtyard, and all of a sudden somebody entered her apartment and started to strangle her?" No, of course not. He shook his head. There was no need to tell them all that. He could simply say to the police, "I happened to glance out my window, and I saw this man strangling this girl in the apartment on the other side of the courtyard. You'd better come quickly. Maybe she's still alive, maybe you can catch the man-"
That was the thing to say. But Mr. Crispian didn't say it. He stayed away from the telephone. Instead of calling the police, Mr. Crispian remained by the window, fascinated and chilled, frozen in his seat. He wanted to see what would happen next. His desire to save the blonde girl warred with his fear of getting involved in anything, and lost.
A moment more ticked by.
Then the face of the black-haired man appeared unexpectedly in the window, peering out.
Mr. Crispian, jolted with panic, tried to pull back out of sight, but he was too late. He had been seen! There could be no doubt of it! The black-haired man's gaze seemed to travel across the courtyard on a beeline to Mr. Crispian's window. He stared directly at Mr. Crispian for a long moment, and then, with a strange smile on his face, the black-haired man reached for the cord that controlled the blind. He pulled down the blind with a slow, deliberate motion, ending the show.
Mr. Crispian gasped in shock and instantly yanked down his own window blind. Then he collapsed into his chair and sat quivering with terror, not knowing what he should do now.
This was bad. For the second night in a row, he had been seen by one of the people across the court yard. But this was much worse than last night. It wasn't any naked wanton teen-ager that he had spied on. It was a murderer.
He saw me, Mr. Crispian thought in panic. He knows I witnessed the murder!
What can I do?
Suppose he comes to kill me too?
The telephone beckoned. The police would protect him. But Mr. Crispian could not bring himself to make the call. He had always feared the police. He was certain, in a fatalistic way, that the police knew all about his activities as a Peeping Tom, and that they were simply biding their time, collecting evidence, waiting for the proper moment to arrest him. He could not bring himself to ask for their help now, even in this moment of danger.
But what else was there to do? Where to turn for safety and security?
Mr. Crispian paced his two-room apartment, walking in short, bird-like steps. He looked about for some weapon that he could use to defend himself with in case the black-haired man decided to come looking for him.
Mr. Crispian did not doubt that he had been seen. After last night's episode with Kathryn, Mr. Crispian was abnormally sensitive to the possibility that some of the people on the far side of the courtyard might be able to see him as easily as he saw them. This time there could be no question about it. In that frozen fraction of a second before he had been able to duck down out of sight, Mr. Crispian had been clearly in the path of the black-haired man's gaze. Their glances had locked on each other for an instant. The man obviously knew that Mr. Crispian had witnessed the strangling, and it was folly to pretend otherwise. And certainly the murderer would want to get rid of any witnesses, if possible.
How long would it take' for him to get here?
Mr. Crispian's apartment was midway along his arm of the U. It would not be very difficult for the black-haired man to figure out what apartment belonged to which window. Kathryn had done it easily enough last night. And then, Mr. Crispian thought, the murderer would certainly come around to pay a call on the window peeper.
The doorbell rang.
Mr. Crispian froze. His teeth were chattering with terror. What to do now? How had he gotten here so soon? For the second night in a row, his sanctuary was under attack. Last night he had been foolish enough to let Kathryn in, because she had threatened to scream if he didn't. What now? Sit still and not answer? The door was locked.
Suppose he breaks in?
No. That was absolutely impossible. The door was thick, made of metal. You would need special tools to break it down, a blowtorch, a crowbar, things like that. It couldn't be knocked off its hinges by a simple shove of the shoulder, the way they were always doing in the movies.
The doorbell rang a second time, loudly, much more insistently.
Cold shivers of panic ran through Mr. Crispian's slender body. His eyes nervously darted around the apartment, still hunting for some weapon that he could use to defend himself. He saw a kitchen knife lying on the dinette table. It was long and sharp, deadly. But Mr. Crispian knew that he would never be able to use the knife on anyone, and see all that horrible blood come pouring out.
Something else, he thought. Something that I could use as a club, something heavy.
He ran to his kitchen closet and flung open the doors. A heavy skillet lay on the shelf. Yes. Yes, that would be good enough. Mr. Crispian thought. Fine. He could open the door, allow the strangler to rush into the apartment, hit him over the head with the skillet and knock him out, and then call the police.
Mr. Crispian trembled. Did he dare open the door at all? What if something misfired? Perhaps the murderer would grab the skillet away from him and club him down with it. He was such a big man, so strong looking.
The doorbell rang a third time. Fists pounded urgently against the door.
A high-pitched voice said, "Won't you please open up? I know you're there and I need help!
Mr. Crispian blinked in surprise. It had been a woman's voice. The woman? The blonde? But that was impossible. She was dead. He had seen the big man strangle her.
It had to be some kind of trick, Mr. Crispian thought, a trick designed to make him open the door to the black-haired man, the murderer.
"Please don't turn me away!" she pleaded, with a sob in her voice.
Mr. Crispian hung indecisively. The voice sounded female, all right. He didn't see how anybody could be imitating a woman's voice so expertly. Maybe it was the blonde girl, after all. Maybe by some miracle she had escaped, and she was being pursued hv the strangler.
He could just sit there behind his locked door, of course. But he knew that he'd feel shame the rest of his life if he let her be killed when he had a chance to save her. He owed her so much, after all. She had given him so many nights of panting pleasure.
Impulsively, Mr. Crispian rushed to the door. He threw it open, keeping the skillet gripped tightly in his hand, ready for immediate use.
It was the blonde girl from across the courtyard.
The one that Mr. Crispian had spied on for so many nights. The one with the round, firm breasts, and the small pinkish-red nipples, the milky-white skin. The girl whom he had watched twisting and writhing in nightly calisthenics, her breasts leaping and hobbling, her flesh going taut.
He knew her nude body well.
And now here she was, standing at his door. She was wearing a housecoat that had been loosely thrown over her light negligee. She was breathing hard, the hillocks of her breasts heaving violently. She looked frightened and disturbed. There was, Mr. Crispian couldn't help but notice, a neat row of purpling finger-marks around her lovely throat.
He stammered incoherently, "I thought you were-I saw him-that is-he strangled von."
She shook her head. "No. It wasn't anything like that You've got to come quickly with me. My fiance-there was a terrible accident He's hurt very bad ly. I don't know what to do."
"But wasn't he strangling you?" Mr. Crispian asked inanely, staring at the finger-marks around her throat. He could not get that scene of violence out of his mind. "I saw it-across the courtyard-I happened to look out the window, you understand-"
She shrugged, almost casually. "We had a silly little quarrel, but it was over. Everything was all right. And then-the accident-" She reached for his arm, tugged at him, half dragged him toward the door. "Oh, please, you've got to come. Hurry!"
Mr. Crispian goggled at the creamy white flesh of her rising breasts, nearly spilling out of the front of her gown. He thought he could see her nipples. Except for last night, and the encounter with Kathryn, Mr. Crispian had not been this close to a woman this way for years.
Last night he had bungled it. He had had a chance to gratify his long-pent-up desires, and he had placed his hands on the hot-blooded young girl's bare, quivering breasts only to thrust her away from him in revulsion. Now, unbelievably, another woman had come to him. The blonde. The one whose body had made so many of his nights happy. She was all but naked under her wrap. He knew that he could see and touch her bare body if he wanted, that in her present state of near-hysteria he might do much more.
She had come to. him.
She wanted his help.
Maybe the time had arrived, Mr. Crispian thought, to stop peeping and start living. The fact that two women on two consecutive nights had come to him, nearly nude under their outer garments, might be a sign. His luck was running the right way. Why fight it?
The sight of her, her warmth next to him, her full, heaving breasts and sweet-smelling body, made him dizzy, made him grow reckless.
"Yes-yes." Mr. Crispian blurted. "I'll go with you-whatever you want."
She turned and led the way out of the apartment. Mr. Crispian started to put his heavy skillet down. Then he changed his mind and carried it along with him, for reasons that he did not fully comprehend. It just seemed safer to have the heavy pan with him when he ventured into a strange apartment.
The tall blonde girl strode rapidly along, and Mr. Crispian had to hustle to keep up with her, with his short legs and undynamic body. He could imagine the big globes of her breasts jiggling up and down with each stride that she took.
They circled through the hallway, around the bend in the U of the building, ran down the stairs, and headed for the blonde girl's apartment, directly across from the apartment where Mr. Crispian lived.
The girl produced a key from a pocket of her housecoat and opened the door. Mr. Crispian followed her in. When he stepped into the apartment that he had watched for so many months, Mr. Crispian involuntarily let out a little gasp of horror.
The man was lying sprawled on his face in the middle of the room.
A pair of scissors was sticking out of his back.
The scissors were embedded right up to the finger holes. The long blades, Mr. Crispian thought, probably penetrated five or six inches into his body. Cutting through lungs and heart, snuffing out life.
"Good Lord!" Mr. Crispian cried.
The blonde girl turned to him, her breasts heaving in agitation. "We were having this crazy argument," she said breathlessly. "And then suddenly we were fighting and he lost his balance; he fell over backward. The scissors were resting on that little ledge over there, and he fell right onto them. It was one of those freak things. One in a million. The scissors just went right into his body, all the way like that. I'm afraid he's dead!"
"What shall I do?" Mr. Crispian asked, half dazed by the excitement and by the nearness of the blonde's full-breasted body.
"Take the scissors out of him," she begged him. "Please. I'm afraid to touch them. You do it. Please take them out for me!"
Mr. Crispian looked nervously down at the man. He looked dead, though of course Mr. Crispian had no real way of being sure. He wasn't any expert on corpses. The big man didn't appear to be breathing. There was a little oozing blood around the place where the scissors had gone into his back.
"You think I ought to?" he asked uneasily. "I've heard it isn't a good idea to take sharp objects out of wounded people."
"Do it."
"Maybe we ought to call a doctor. Let him do it."
"No. I can't wait. I want those scissors out of him! Oh, Jim, Jim, my darling!"
"Have you called an ambulance yet?"
"I'll take care of everything. But first get the scissors out of him." She touched the front of her housecoat, and, as if by accident, the belt came loose. Mr. Crispian stared at her. He could see the negligee underneath, and he could see through the negligee as though it weren't there at all.
He saw breasts, round and red-nippled.
Thighs, twin firm columns.
The deep socket of the navel. The golden reflections.
He was hypnotized by the nearness of her body.
Maybe, he told himself, she would strip herself naked for him. In her gratitude for saving her fiance, she would reveal herself to him in all her glowing nudity. He would approach her, touch her breasts, feel the nipples hot and hard against his palm, and his lips would go to hers just as he had always dreamed; they would sink down onto the bed and her thighs would cradle him and he would glide to meet her passion.
"Take the scissors out of him," the blonde girl said insistently.
Mr. Crispian shrugged. Was it safe to do it? Maybe he was wrong-maybe if he didn't take the scissors out in a hurry, the man would die.
The blonde girl's body robbed him of all power to think rationally. She was commanding him, and he had to obey. His eyes rested for a moment on her thinly veiled body, drinking in the beauty of those breasts and thighs.
Then Mr. Crispian knelt. He put his hands OB the scissors. He gave an experimental tug.
The scissors did not want to come out. He tugged them back and forth and up and down, almost forgetting, in the intensity of his concentration, that they were embedded in the flesh of a human being, and suddenly they came away. A great rush of blood came with them, spouting wildly over Mr. Crispian's hands and over his trousers.
And just as the scissors came out of the fallen man's body the blonde girl hit Mr. Crispian across the back of the head with the skillet. His own skillet.
Mr. Crispian was stunned by the unexpected blow. He had been kneeling to work on the scissors, and he simply toppled forward in a heap.
His head felt foggy, and he saw bright spots dancing in front of his eyes. He was dimly conscious of the blonde girl standing over him, gripping the massive skillet, getting ready for another blow.
"You-hit me," Mr. Crispian mumbled thickly. "Why did you hit me? I was doing what you wanted. I was taking the scissors out."
She laughed shrilly at him. "You poor little creep! All these months, sitting there, watching me from the window! Well, I knew you'd be useful today. I knew you'd come in handy."
"I don't understand," Mr. Crispian muttered. Speaking was an effort. The pain in his head was tremendous. He could not get up. His legs felt numb. He wondered if she had fractured his skull. "Why did you hit me?" he asked. "I don't understand."
She smiled malevolently. "You don't think I want to fry for Jim's murder, do you?" she asked "Even if it was self-defense. And it was. You saw it. He was strangling me, he meant to kill me. But then I managed to grab the scissors when he went to pull the window blind. I stabbed him good and hard."
Mr. Crispian tried to rise. The skillet descended again, crashing against his skull with terrifying impact, and he slumped weakly back to the floor.
He lay there with his eyes shut, still grasping the bloody scissors in his hand, completely unable to move.
He heard the sound of a telephone being dialed. Then the blonde girl was speaking.
"Hello ... police headquarters? This is Ellen Dawson apartment 6-G, 1011 Rivington Drive. I want to report a murder. Yes ... that's right ... a murder. Of my fiance, Mr. James McHughes. McHughes. The artist.
"No, I didn't do it. You see, there's this old pervert living across the courtyard, who was always looking out his window at me, watching to see if I'd undress ... yes, that's right, a Peeping Tom.
"Well, this evening he rang my doorbell, and when I let him in he just went berserk. He started to attack me. No, not rape. He was strangling me, in fact. I've got the marks on my throat. And then my fiance came in--we had a date tonight-and tried to grab this little old guy, but the pervert picked up a big pair of scissors that I have and stabbed him with it. I was terrified, but I hit him over the head with a big metal skillet ... Yes, he's unconscous now. And T think Jim's dead. You'd better send someone over here right away ... please. I'm going to collapse any minute...." She hung up.
Mr. Crispian shook his head, trying desperately to clear the fog away from his brain. His eyes fluttered open. He said thickly, "It isn't so-I didn't try to strangle you, he did-and you killed him yourself, not me. I'll tell them that!"
"Who'll believe you?"
"The scissors. Your fingerprints are on the scissors," Mr. Crispian said.
She giggled. "Of course they are. They're my own pair of scissors, aren't they? Why shouldn't my prints be on them? But the scissors also have your fingerprints on them. And that's what counts."
Mr. Crispian put one hand to his aching head. He knew he was being framed, that she was using him to save herself. That while the black-haired man had gone to pull down the window blinds, the woman had gathered her strength and had rammed the scissors into his back before he could finish the job. Then she had gone looking for a convenient patsy.
Him.
She had gone to fetch him, knowing that she could have her way with him. And now he was going to pay the price for the murder.
She grinned at him and said, "Here. Here's a treat for you, to show I'm a sport."
She took off her housecoat.
And then, she grasped the hem of the negligee and seductively lifted it up, up over her shins and knees, past her thighs, past the flat stomach, past the slopes of her breasts.
She stood nude before him, wanton, alluring.
Mr. Crispian stared at her. His dimming eyes roved the contours of those lush thighs and shameless breasts. There was the dry, coppery taste of lust in his mouth. She did a slow pirouette, revealing to him the profile, the tall-nippled breasts thrusting out like globes from her body, the firm white mounds of the buttocks.
He saw everything. At close range. He could see the beads of sweat gleaming on her skin in the deep valley between her breasts. He could smell the scent of her. She was so close ... so very close.
Mr. Crispian tried to rise. He still held the scissors clutched in his hand. He wanted to strike out at her, to plunge the bloody weapon between those mocking white breasts, to see the crimson of her veins stain her nipples and her body.
He got halfway to his feet, then, with an effort, stood erect. He took an uncertain step forward, lurching and staggering, almost falling. She darted away from him, the spheres of her bare breasts swaying and jiggling. Her buttocks, her body, seemed to jeer at him.
"Oh, no you don't!" she cried.
Mr. Crispian swung the dripping scissors at her, aiming for those twin globes of sensual flesh. He might just as well have been trying to stab the moon. He missed by a wide margin and went sprawling forward, flat on his face, the scissors dropping from his fingers and skittering across the floor.
She was above him. He felt her warmth. He sensed the swaying globes of her breasts near him. He heard her silvery laughter.
Then the skillet descended once again, crashing into the back of his skull with fearful force.
Mr. Crispian's head dropped limply to one side, and he felt dark paralysis creeping up the length of his body. He lay there, conscious of the nakedness of the blonde girl somewhere nearby, and as he waited helplessly for the police to arrive he was thinking, I only wanted to look ... I only wanted to look....