on Oxford Street he used wads of paper towels
to give himself a kind of sponge bath from the waist up, and he
used the liquid soap from the dispenser over the washstand to shave
with. It was the most uncomfortable shave of his life, and his face
itched like the devil for an hour afterward, but at least he looked
decent. He could walk into a restaurant without the waiter
automatically trying to pitch him out onto the sidewalk.
Dinner consisted of a fried cutlet and fried
potatoes, with surrealistically green peas. He had heard someone
say once that the English used baking soda in their cooking water
to get their vegetables that color, but who cared. What with the
tip, he was left with about three and a half shillings; he wouldn’t
even try to find a place to sleep for that.
To kill a man, Jesus. Could he do that? Was
it possible to just walk up to some guy you didn’t even know, and
then simply kill him?
Yes, he thought so. He could plan it out and
do it—it might even be sort of fun. Merely the idea of it excited
him. And he could use the money—that much money would take care of
everything. All he had to do was to pull it off—and survive—and he
could have everything he wanted. Presented to him, for once, on a
silver platter.
But to kill a man. He didn’t know, he just
didn’t know.
The food made him realize how long it had
been since he had slept. Walking around afterward, he felt as if
his arms and legs were in iron braces and his head were stuffed
with cottage cheese. He had to find a place to lie down.
A few short blocks took him down to the
Thames. It was a nice part of the city, and the retaining walls
under which the river could be heard rustling by were lined with
benches. He picked one and lay down, throwing the curve of his arm
over his eyes. He was asleep almost instantly.
How long was he out? He couldn’t say
precisely, but it was pitch black when he was awakened by something
tapping on the side of his skull. It was a night stick, the other
end of which was attached to a policeman who in the dim penumbra of
his flashlight beam looked about fifteen feet tall. He had a pencil
line mustache; that was all that made him human.
“Come on, now,” came a murmur in heavy
cockney. “You can’t sleep ‘ere. These benches isn’t for sleepin’
on. The river ain’t no hotel.”
Guinness worked himself up into a sitting
position. The cop had been reduced by then to nearly a human
scale.
“Come on, now. You move off down the way
there, and be about your business. Come on, now.”
Without speaking, too tired to be anything
but obedient, Guinness submitted to the Law’s womanish nagging and
began to shuffle off. He stayed by the river until he was sure the
cop was out of sight, and then sat down again on another bench. He
was awake enough now to be angry.
He didn’t have any business to be about, that
was the thing. He couldn’t just keep on walking forever. He had to
help himself somehow—he had a right to do that much.
Fully awake now, he continued on the bench
for perhaps five minutes more as his anger and his despair ran
together and hardened into a single idea.
Yes he did. He had business to be about. Yes,
by God, it was time he was about his business. With a vengeance
he’d be about his business.
Outside a pub that was closed for the night
he found a telephone booth.
“Major?”
“Yes? Who is this?” The voice at the other
end of the line didn’t sound like that of a light sleeper.
“Major, I’m signing on.”
4
According to the single spaced, typewritten
instructions he had received with his money, the Victim Elect’s
name was Hornbeck. Peter W. Hornbeck. Five feet eleven, one hundred
and sixty-five pounds, dark brown hair, brown eyes. Age,
forty-seven. Never married but no known homosexual tendencies.
Address: 23 Ellerslie Road, Shepherd’s Bush—a respectable middle
class neighborhood given to semidetached houses faced with stone or
dark wood and white plaster. Hornbeck
to give himself a kind of sponge bath from the waist up, and he
used the liquid soap from the dispenser over the washstand to shave
with. It was the most uncomfortable shave of his life, and his face
itched like the devil for an hour afterward, but at least he looked
decent. He could walk into a restaurant without the waiter
automatically trying to pitch him out onto the sidewalk.
Dinner consisted of a fried cutlet and fried
potatoes, with surrealistically green peas. He had heard someone
say once that the English used baking soda in their cooking water
to get their vegetables that color, but who cared. What with the
tip, he was left with about three and a half shillings; he wouldn’t
even try to find a place to sleep for that.
To kill a man, Jesus. Could he do that? Was
it possible to just walk up to some guy you didn’t even know, and
then simply kill him?
Yes, he thought so. He could plan it out and
do it—it might even be sort of fun. Merely the idea of it excited
him. And he could use the money—that much money would take care of
everything. All he had to do was to pull it off—and survive—and he
could have everything he wanted. Presented to him, for once, on a
silver platter.
But to kill a man. He didn’t know, he just
didn’t know.
The food made him realize how long it had
been since he had slept. Walking around afterward, he felt as if
his arms and legs were in iron braces and his head were stuffed
with cottage cheese. He had to find a place to lie down.
A few short blocks took him down to the
Thames. It was a nice part of the city, and the retaining walls
under which the river could be heard rustling by were lined with
benches. He picked one and lay down, throwing the curve of his arm
over his eyes. He was asleep almost instantly.
How long was he out? He couldn’t say
precisely, but it was pitch black when he was awakened by something
tapping on the side of his skull. It was a night stick, the other
end of which was attached to a policeman who in the dim penumbra of
his flashlight beam looked about fifteen feet tall. He had a pencil
line mustache; that was all that made him human.
“Come on, now,” came a murmur in heavy
cockney. “You can’t sleep ‘ere. These benches isn’t for sleepin’
on. The river ain’t no hotel.”
Guinness worked himself up into a sitting
position. The cop had been reduced by then to nearly a human
scale.
“Come on, now. You move off down the way
there, and be about your business. Come on, now.”
Without speaking, too tired to be anything
but obedient, Guinness submitted to the Law’s womanish nagging and
began to shuffle off. He stayed by the river until he was sure the
cop was out of sight, and then sat down again on another bench. He
was awake enough now to be angry.
He didn’t have any business to be about, that
was the thing. He couldn’t just keep on walking forever. He had to
help himself somehow—he had a right to do that much.
Fully awake now, he continued on the bench
for perhaps five minutes more as his anger and his despair ran
together and hardened into a single idea.
Yes he did. He had business to be about. Yes,
by God, it was time he was about his business. With a vengeance
he’d be about his business.
Outside a pub that was closed for the night
he found a telephone booth.
“Major?”
“Yes? Who is this?” The voice at the other
end of the line didn’t sound like that of a light sleeper.
“Major, I’m signing on.”
4
According to the single spaced, typewritten
instructions he had received with his money, the Victim Elect’s
name was Hornbeck. Peter W. Hornbeck. Five feet eleven, one hundred
and sixty-five pounds, dark brown hair, brown eyes. Age,
forty-seven. Never married but no known homosexual tendencies.
Address: 23 Ellerslie Road, Shepherd’s Bush—a respectable middle
class neighborhood given to semidetached houses faced with stone or
dark wood and white plaster. Hornbeck
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