The Crime
The crime was an act of aggravation of deadly murder-assault, of nonchalant habeus corpus heinous death-excercise. The crime was committed, planned, executed, diabolically realised, a nightmare scenario THAT WAS DEFINITELY NOT A TUESDAY THING TO DO.
Tuesday is an empty alley, wet from rain but warm. Tuesday is going shopping in Austria, with automatic doors, everything just right, perhaps even perfect. Tuesday is television at home, Tuesday is take-away from a box, Tuesday is on the phone with friends.
The crime was therefore a barren faced, brazen hussy who wiggled her hips, thrusting them suggestively, little-caring, definite. The crime was red hair. The crime was winking at strangers, and later stealing their wallets and have them beaten in an alleyway, so much for following silky stockings you damn fool. The crime took place in an apartment, hints of a grey overcoat, wind blowing curtains, this was real, this was crime. The crime was a-jarring doors to your eyelids, uncensored.
The crime was murder. The crime was atypical, and yet at ease blood-mindedly overblown simplicity: The murder was a knife in the back, with the red bloodpool, with the corpse wearing a suit of grey, with the bookshelves the only witnesses remaining now, with the carpet drinking up the blood, the vampyre carpet, carpet-ghoul, carpet thirst-hate. Objective but insatiable. Witness carpet.
No sign of a break-in, and no forced entry and no sign of escape, perhaps through the balcony, the curtains blowing wildly, like cartoon tentacles searching for prey. No finger-prints on the door handle, pigskin wallet for the hand of THE MURDERER, black gloves of insatiable desires of murderous activity. So quiet here now, so peaceful, makes you want to sit down and take a book from the shelf and put your feet down and read by the light of the lamp, rest your feet on the body feeding the carpet violent memories of lifeblood.
Peaceful. How ironic when you consider the jostle, the melee, the sparring here before, the conflictconfrontation, when the peace was forever disturbed. The maid heard a bump, but she is Polish and is paid well by some to stay silent or perhaps that's just what the police want you to believe, if there is a cover-up like the papers would claim. Never know with these high-society types: His Lordship was a spoon in many soups, a floating eyelash in everyone's drinks, a hot lover devourer in many beds, a secret in many woman's heart.
The year was 1933, it was 1924, just before the Great war, sometime between two World Wars. The times were changing. For better. For worse. For richer, and for poorer. His Lordship had dealings with the Nazis, and the Occult and men in fezes. There were more secrets in high society than anyone ever cared for, and he was one of them. Who else knew about the film studio downstairs? Of the girls brought there with friends, and canisters of film, that later rolled away to Baghdad for good money? Or was it necessary to reveal that at all? Or the old man, weeping and crying and banging on this door everyday to be let in, only to be arrested after a phonecall from within, yet beaten senseless he was back the next day, calling for the Devil to come out?
There was no revelation in the dagger. The blade curved, oriental-style, sharp, deadly, lethal. The handle was gold and there were gemstones. A deadly ally for reaping. Forwardthrustrape. His Lordship lay on the floor of his study, dead. The room was small, moderately decorated. There was no fire in the fireplace, the door to the balcony was open, as was the door of the room itself. There were no signs of struggle, though some things looked displaced, a book here, a small item there, a pipe on the floor, a small mountain range made from the ashes that could only be seen from where His Lordship was lying, but he was too far gone to notice that now, the unconquered mountain range...
Perhaps there were things missing, his ring perhaps, his whole finger severed and gone along with it, perhaps he had a bruise on his head, beaten with a heavy object now also missing. Perhaps he had other bruises, and even garroted with piano-wire, professionally, and his hand was nailed to the floor with a large black nail, to keep him from rising ever again, and his feet were in the fireplace, now burnt away, and he had gemstones between his teeth, as if in warning. And a circle of salt was surrounding him, or maybe not, the center of which was the handle of the dagger, sticking out of his back, so proud, a lighthouse.
This was no ordinary break-in. The inspector was nearly sick upon finding the mutilated body. With the insides hanging out, with the eyes removed, with the ears gone to the walls for display with nails. With the tongue between the thighs, touching the genital. This was not how they pictured it would be.
The death was obviously a quick one: the assassin slipped in, cut his victim's throat and then fled. The victim bled to death fast and easily, perhaps not even noticing what was happening to him. He must have died in his sleep. He died in the war. He was hung from a tree by a lynch mob. He was beaten and robbed on the street. He just plain died.
His Lordship's body was the most obvious thing about the room. It was dead, and from the back, an erection, a beaconing object of pride: a lethal assassin-blade, a dagger from Istanbul, and the Turks who dwelled there testified to this.
His Lordship was dead. He was stabbed in the back. Whodunit?
