Dirt

Chapter 59

The bicyclist pulled up a couple of doors down from the address he had been given and got off the machine. It was a ten-speed racing bike, and he was dressed to use it – tight cycling pants, a nylon jacket, a helmet, and very large yellow-tinted goggles. He leaned against a tree and waited, consulting his watch. Half an hour passed, then the woman emerged from the building, just as he had been told she would, dressed in a ball gown and a fur jacket. The chauffeur braced at the rear door of the Mercedes S600; she got into the rear seat, and the car pulled away from the curb.

“We’re going to the Plaza Hotel, Paul,” Amanda said. “I expect to be there until about eleven. We’ll go to the front door.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Paul said. “Mrs. Dart, would you mind if I stop at a drugstore and pick up some aspirin? I’m getting a headache.”

“Of course, Paul; we have time.” Amanda pressed the switch that raised the rear sunshade, giving her some privacy, then leaned back, her neck against the headrest, and took some deep breaths. Amanda could sleep in seconds, and she often took advantage of slow automobile trips in Manhattan, where the average speed of traffic was four miles per hour, to rest. “I’m going to take a quick nap, Paul,” she said. “Please don’t disturb me until we’re arriving at the Plaza.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Paul replied.

Amanda liked to think of something pleasant as she fell asleep. She thought about her lunch date with Dick Hickock the following day, and it made her smile.

The cyclist followed the car down Lexington Avenue; traffic was heavy. The car stopped for two lights, but the cyclist wasn’t happy with the layout of traffic. Then something good happened. The chauffeur double-parked in front of a drugstore, put his emergency blinkers on, got out of the car, and went into the store. Perfect.

The cyclist maneuvered to the right of the car, where the woman was sitting, her head against the headrest, her eyes closed, mouth slightly open. He checked the door lock button; it was up. He stepped off the bicycle, leaned it against a parked car, and reached under his jacket. His hand emerged holding an icepick. The chauffeur’s absence made his pistol unnecessary.

Quietly, he opened the rear door of the Mercedes. The woman seemed to be sleeping. He took a wad of Kleenex from his jacket pocket, then, holding her head back with his left hand on her forehead, he drove the icepick up her nose and into her brain. Her eyes opened wide, but she didn’t have time to cry out, or even to move. He jerked the handle of the icepick back and forth, in order to do as much damage as possible. She slumped, and a trickle of blood ran from her nose. He stanched it with the Kleenex, and she stopped bleeding. Her heart was no longer pumping blood.

He closed her eyes, then noticed the diamond necklace. He gave it a short, sharp jerk, and it came away in his hand. Then he shut the car door, got onto the bicycle, and pedaled away down Lexington. At the next corner he turned east, stopped, and looked back. The Mercedes passed him; the driver did not look alarmed. The cyclist smiled to himself and moved off.

The big car rolled to a stop in front of the Plaza. It was a gala benefit evening, and limos crowded the front door area, depositing their gorgeously dressed passengers. The hotel’s doorman stepped up to the Mercedes and opened the rear door.

Amanda Dart’s body rolled slowly out of the car into the gutter, now nothing but dirt.