would be September, a month
she had been looking forward to for what seemed an eternity. Next weekend, she
would turn eighteen. Three weeks after that, she would matriculate at Barnard
College. She was one of those girls who, despite a fervent wish to be living
another life, had staved off womanhood as long as she could, through the ages
of thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen, clinging to her stuffed animals even while
school friends were already discussing stockings, lipstick, and invitations. At
sixteen, the stuffed animals had finally been relegated to the upper reaches of
a closet. At seventeen, she was lithe, blue-eyed, and heart-stoppingly
beautiful. She wore her long blond hair tied with a ribbon in the back.
When the bells of Calvary Church
struck six, she saw Mr and Mrs Biggs hurrying down the front stoop, rushing off
to the shops before they closed. They waved to the girl, and she to them. A few
minutes later, brushing tears from her eyes, she set off slowly toward home,
clutching her textbooks to her chest, looking at the grass and the clover and
the hovering bees. Had she turned to her left, she might have seen, on the far
side of the park, a man watching her from outside the wrought-iron fence.
This man had been watching her a long
time. He carried a black case in his right hand and was dressed in black -
overdressed, in fact, given the heat. He never took his eyes from the girl as
she crossed the street and climbed the stairs to her townhouse, a handsome
limestone affair with two miniature stone lions mounting an ineffectual guard
on either side of the front door. He saw the girl open the door without having
to unlock it.
The man had observed the two old
servants leaving the house. Glancing left, right, and over his shoulder, he
started off. Quickly he approached the house, ascended the steps, tried the
door, and found it still unlocked.
A half hour later, the summer-evening
silence of Gramercy Park was ruptured by a scream, a girl's scream. It carried
from one end of the street to the other, hanging in the air, persisting longer
than one would have thought physically possible. Shortly thereafter, the man
burst out the back door of the girl's house. A metal object no larger than a
small coin flew from his hands as he stumbled down the rear steps. It hit a
slate flagstone and bounced surprisingly high into the air. The man nearly fell
to the ground himself, but he recovered, fled past the garden potting shed, and
escaped from the garden down the back alley.
Mr and Mrs Biggs heard the scream.
They were just returning, laden with bags of groceries and flowers. Horrified,
they trundled into the house and up the stairs as quickly as they were able. On
the second floor, the master bedroom door was open, which it should not have
been. Inside that room, they found her. The shopping bags fell from Mr Biggs's
hands. A pound of flour spread out around his old black shoes, raising a little
cloud of white dust, and a yellow onion rolled all the way to the girl's bare
feet.
She stood in the center of her
parents' bedroom, clad only in a slip and other undergarments not meant for
servants' eyes. Her legs were naked. Her long slender arms were outstretched
above her head, the wrists bound by a thick rope, which was secured in turn to
a ceiling fixture from which a small chandelier depended. The girl's fingers
nearly touched its crystal prisms. Her slip was torn, both front and back, as
if rent by the lashes of a whip or cane. A man's long white tie or scarf was
wound tightly around her neck and between her lips.
She was not, however, dead. Her eyes
were wild, staring, unseeing. She looked on the familiar old servants not with relief
but with a kind of terror, as if they might be murderers or demons. Her whole
frame shivered, despite the heat. She made to scream again, but no sound came
out, as if she had expended all her voice.
Mrs Biggs came to her senses
she had been looking forward to for what seemed an eternity. Next weekend, she
would turn eighteen. Three weeks after that, she would matriculate at Barnard
College. She was one of those girls who, despite a fervent wish to be living
another life, had staved off womanhood as long as she could, through the ages
of thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen, clinging to her stuffed animals even while
school friends were already discussing stockings, lipstick, and invitations. At
sixteen, the stuffed animals had finally been relegated to the upper reaches of
a closet. At seventeen, she was lithe, blue-eyed, and heart-stoppingly
beautiful. She wore her long blond hair tied with a ribbon in the back.
When the bells of Calvary Church
struck six, she saw Mr and Mrs Biggs hurrying down the front stoop, rushing off
to the shops before they closed. They waved to the girl, and she to them. A few
minutes later, brushing tears from her eyes, she set off slowly toward home,
clutching her textbooks to her chest, looking at the grass and the clover and
the hovering bees. Had she turned to her left, she might have seen, on the far
side of the park, a man watching her from outside the wrought-iron fence.
This man had been watching her a long
time. He carried a black case in his right hand and was dressed in black -
overdressed, in fact, given the heat. He never took his eyes from the girl as
she crossed the street and climbed the stairs to her townhouse, a handsome
limestone affair with two miniature stone lions mounting an ineffectual guard
on either side of the front door. He saw the girl open the door without having
to unlock it.
The man had observed the two old
servants leaving the house. Glancing left, right, and over his shoulder, he
started off. Quickly he approached the house, ascended the steps, tried the
door, and found it still unlocked.
A half hour later, the summer-evening
silence of Gramercy Park was ruptured by a scream, a girl's scream. It carried
from one end of the street to the other, hanging in the air, persisting longer
than one would have thought physically possible. Shortly thereafter, the man
burst out the back door of the girl's house. A metal object no larger than a
small coin flew from his hands as he stumbled down the rear steps. It hit a
slate flagstone and bounced surprisingly high into the air. The man nearly fell
to the ground himself, but he recovered, fled past the garden potting shed, and
escaped from the garden down the back alley.
Mr and Mrs Biggs heard the scream.
They were just returning, laden with bags of groceries and flowers. Horrified,
they trundled into the house and up the stairs as quickly as they were able. On
the second floor, the master bedroom door was open, which it should not have
been. Inside that room, they found her. The shopping bags fell from Mr Biggs's
hands. A pound of flour spread out around his old black shoes, raising a little
cloud of white dust, and a yellow onion rolled all the way to the girl's bare
feet.
She stood in the center of her
parents' bedroom, clad only in a slip and other undergarments not meant for
servants' eyes. Her legs were naked. Her long slender arms were outstretched
above her head, the wrists bound by a thick rope, which was secured in turn to
a ceiling fixture from which a small chandelier depended. The girl's fingers
nearly touched its crystal prisms. Her slip was torn, both front and back, as
if rent by the lashes of a whip or cane. A man's long white tie or scarf was
wound tightly around her neck and between her lips.
She was not, however, dead. Her eyes
were wild, staring, unseeing. She looked on the familiar old servants not with relief
but with a kind of terror, as if they might be murderers or demons. Her whole
frame shivered, despite the heat. She made to scream again, but no sound came
out, as if she had expended all her voice.
Mrs Biggs came to her senses
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