Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 7, No. 5, October 1960

The Stalkers by Arthur Porges

The killer was a warped psychopath. But his victims had equally dangerous quirks.

The face on the pillow was small and oval, with delicate features. It might have been the face of a young girl, except for the almost imperceptible stubble on the chin.

At a little after two in the morning the eyes opened. They were pale blue and almost without depth, like shallow water turned to ice. Without moving his body, Rudi glanced at the luminous dial of the clock on the night table. The time had come again.

Snapping on the bedlamp, the man slid from under the covers, which lay flat and unwrinkled, giving silent testimony to three hours of motionless sleep. Bare to the waist, his torso showed layers of rippling muscles — long, elastic bands that were powerful without bulging. He moved with a lithe grace, almost feminine, that came from knowing precisely how each part of his body was oriented at any moment.

As a pot of strong coffee perked cheerfully in the tiny bachelor’s kitchen, Rudi shaved with meticulous care. Fifteen minutes later, his face baby-smooth, he sat down just long enough to drink three cups of fragrant brew, black but heavily sugared.

At two-thirty he removed the pyjama tops and began to dress. His underclothes were shorts and a thin, white tee shirt, but at that point the normal male routine took a new and remarkable course.

Over his hairless legs Rudi drew heavy-gauge, gun-metal nylons, pinning their tops to his shorts in lieu of a garter belt or its equivalent. Across his chest went the padded brassiere, giving him, despite his almost feminine features, the appearance not so much of a sexual deviate as of a masquerading, boyishly young soldier at some battle front farce, intended for the entertainment of troops long out of touch with femininity. A tight, woolly sweater, tweed skirt, ballerina slippers, and a realistic wig of top professional quality, with long, dark hair, completed his costume. On his small, narrow feet the slippers were congruous enough, without, unlike higher heels, hampering his movements.

There wasn’t really any need for make-up, since the light would be poor and the contact fleeting. But just on the off chance that some officious prowl car might stop him for routine questioning, he used a lipstick and dabbed powder, very lightly, on his face. To any but the keenest gaze, a girl stood there. If the body mass was more shoulder-centered than was normal for a woman, and the hips a bit narrow, the deviations were slight because of Rudi’s slender build.

At two forty-five he opened a drawer to tuck something into a pocket of the skirt. A last look in the mirror, a final tug at the ponytail, and Rudi was ready to go. But before leaving he raised his right hand to study the cameo ring, obviously too small for him, on his little finger. As if carrying out a solemn ritual, he touched it to his lips. Hers. Then the door closed silently on well-oiled hinges as he left the room.

Outside it was quiet and dark. Wrapped in a humid summer night, the city slept. Not all of it, however. Those he sought would be awake; that he could always count on.

His car was parked almost two blocks away, near a large apartment building. Anybody who saw him pulling out would naturally assume he lived there. A needless precaution, in all probability, but easy to take, and so worthwhile.

Rudi walked to his car, made a brief but careful survey of the area, and got in. The well-tuned motor started up almost noiselessly; there was no roar to awaken the curious as he glided away from the curb.

Rudi drove down several miles of side streets, found a parking place adjacent to an empty lot, and headed on foot for a badly-lighted road that ran parallel with the river. Here was a neighborhood where crime flourished almost unchecked. The police took little interest in the inhabitants, who were either petty criminals themselves, or derelicts unworthy of official concern.

When he reached a gloomy intersection which both his instinct and his experience told him might well denote an invisible boundary, he withdrew a small, gleaming object from the skirt pocket, holding it in his right hand. Sometimes they came at him from the front, but more often from behind, or out of an alley to one side. He didn’t care particularly, being quite ready for any approach.

They took him for a girl — what kind, or how foolish to come here at night alone they wouldn’t bother to worry about. A co-ed, slightly drunk and lost, perhaps, whose car had conked out in this hell’s kitchen. Amnesia, or blind despair over some personal sorrow — what did it matter to them? She was well-dressed, obviously young, and presumably helpless. The motive of the attacker might be money, lust, or simple sadism, but he always appeared.

It was amazing how in such a neighborhood, typical of the river area Rudi worked in the dead of night, a potential victim speedily called forth a predator. There were men who slept in doorways; others who prowled streets or alleys; still others who watched from the windows of squalid rooms. They all came out like beasts of prey at the scent of blood.

Pondering these things, Rudi remained thoroughly alert, moving with a kind of nervous haste that was in itself an invitation to twisted minds. A fluttering chick in a den of foxes; a kitten wandering through a kennel of terriers. The pattern was plain, and the result easily predictable.

The attack came from ahead this time, which was rather unusual. Even though the victim appeared wholly defenceless, they normally preferred an indirect assault. Was it merely the fear of being recognized and perhaps picked out for punishment later at some police line-up, or a more primitive motive, as of a hungry animal wary of startling its prey too soon, and so losing it?

Rudi stopped as if demoralized. In the poor light he could see only that the man was heavily built and that he wore a flannel shirt. Rudi peered about, apparently searching for a refuge, and almost immediately the other closed in. Backing against a crazy wooden fence entirely covered with peeling posters, Rudi waited with both hands together at his throat — a naturally feminine pose that suited his plans. Standing that way, everything about him seemed so girlish and vulnerable that the attacker had no reason to hesitate.

He could see the man’s face now, stubbled and moist, a raddled mask of sly degeneracy. With a little cry of triumph he seized Rudi in his arms, drawing him tight against his chest. He stank of stale beer and sweat.

For a fraction of a second, then, he may have realized the essential masculinity of the body pressed to his, but that was all the time he would ever have to wonder about it. Rudi’s trained muscles knotted. His two hands jerked upwards and out to break the other’s grip — and he was free. At the same moment the switch-blade knife in his right hand snapped open to reveal eight inches of bright metal, razor sharp, and slender as any stiletto.

Before the man could realize fully the enormity of his mistake, before the hoarse cry of terror could leave his lips, Rudi’s hand shot forward with feline speed and precision. The glittering steel struck home just where chin joins neck, and drove up obliquely into the base of the brain.

Dead on his feet, the man strained bolt upright for a moment, and then fell. Almost before he hit the ground, Rudi was hurrying down the street, heading back to his car.

By three forty-five he was home, his tension drained away, looking forward to bed and a dreamless sleep. No more awakening in the small hours — until next time. As he began to doze, images floated through his mind, forming a sketchy panorama just as an impressionistic painter might have imagined some night-shadowed vista before transferring it to canvas.

He saw his dead sister, Melita, again, so fragile looking, and yet resilient as Damascus steel. Had her tragic death in the river been his fault, after all? He had tried so hard to be both father and mother to her after their parents had been killed in that auto crash.

He’d been only twenty-four himself at the time. Long hours of work and sacrifice to send her through high school, only to find her, at sixteen, conniving with a boy — Jerry Darmi, wasn’t that the punk’s name — to victimize lecherous older men attracted by her fresh beauty.

Rudi had pleaded, reasoned, and finally beaten the slight, defiant girl. To no avail. It had simply made the gap wider. Away every night, coming home flushed and excited from new ventures in the sordid. He had been compelled to face it: she had a quirk, a fatal twist in her nature. A craving for danger and an utter contempt for the law. To her, crime was the only really big, important adventure left.

Of her morals otherwise, he knew little. Quite possibly, being so vibrant and fastidious, she had been stingy of her favors. Perhaps that stinginess had led directly to her death. The men she associated with were not easily curbed.

And still Rudi had loved her, even while hating her behavior. It had been that way at the last, when she’d stormed from the house for good — “to live my own life without any more pious preaching from you, Big Brother!” What scorn she had managed to crowd into that title.

“I hate you,” she’d added. “You smug goody-goody. You’re only half a man. If only I hadn’t been born a girl, you’d see!”

Yes, that was probably the true quirk. She was one of those unhappy women, relatively few in numbers, who envy men and despise their own sex.

For weeks after she had left, he had tried vainly to trace her, to beg her to return. Then she had been found — by others — a horribly bloated corpse in the river, identifiable only by her cameo ring and the laundry marks on her clothes.

“Melita!” Rudi groaned, and sat up in bed, trembling. But even in that instant of unreasoning despair, he knew that calling wouldn’t help. His sister was dead, and since he’d lost her nine men had paid with their lives for attempting to prey on a woman who was really a man.

He did not consider himself a murderer, however. They had deserved to die. His role had been that of an executioner, meting out justice and retribution. Maybe one of them had killed Melita. And now, as sleep finally came to him, he experienced a moment of truth, almost of revelation. He knew the urge to kill was no longer so much a desire to avenge his sister’s death as the thrill of the game itself. It was the waiting as the stalker closed in, unaware that he was himself being stalked. It was the darting, infallible stroke of the blade.

Surely the degenerates he killed were unfit to live. Could as much be said of the deer or quail men slaughtered for sport?

Thirty-six hours later, Rudi awoke again. It was not quite two — a bit earlier than usual, but good enough. And the shortest period between kills. Was the tempo going to increase in the future?

He made his preparations with his customary care. He hesitated for a moment over wearing a light coat, and decided against it. All of his excursions so far had taken place in mild weather, and the thought of a clumsy outer garment, which might restrict his movements, was distasteful to him. Even though his victims were invariably taken by surprise and were unable to put up much of a fight when they found themselves grappling with a male athlete instead of a frightened girl, there was too much at stake for him to run unnecessary risks.

Besides, he could never be chilly on one of these nights. The blood raced hot through his veins the instant he began his calculated passage down some dark street.

Tonight there was more than a hint of rain in the air. Scudding clouds almost filled the sky, and the trees swayed and rustled as a brisk breeze stirred their upper branches. A storm was on the way. There could be no doubt of that. Unless he finished the job early, he might have to give it up altogether. He had never returned home unsuccessful before, and the thought was intolerable to him. Success now had become a compulsive emotional need.

For almost an hour he walked the river front without encountering anyone sinister lurking in shadows. Three times men passed him with no more than curious glances; and once an old cripple muttered an obscene invitation, only to pass on, cackling witlessly as Rudi shrank aside. And once a bedraggled woman gave him a hard stare and husked: “Get out of here, you little fool! Go on home before you end up in the river — or worse!”

Rudi had winced, wondering if his sister might have received such a warning.

Then, at three-twenty, just after he had ducked into a doorway to avoid one of the rare police patrol cars, Rudi knew that he was being stalked once more. Two shadowy figures were after him. It had never happened before, but he had long anticipated the possibility, and was prepared for it. He had several alternate plans; in fact, depending on the criminals’ tactics — plans which included instant flight if the odds became too heavy.

Covertly, while increasing his pace, he studied the two shadowy figures some twenty yards behind. They had probably been waiting in an alley which, with cool prudence, he had circled in a wide arc. Now, unable to take him by surprise, they were trailing him cautiously, prepared to attack or retreat as circumstances dictated. Perhaps if he were to scream they might lose their nerve.

It was hard to understand why so few women seemed capable of screaming loudly for help at such a time. More often than not, judging from newspaper accounts, they found themselves unable to utter a sound. Those with good lungs and no inhibitions about using them were quite likely to get away unharmed.

The two were closer now, and one of them, short and burly, appeared to be clasping some kind of a club — a section of lead pipe perhaps. If they were both armed, he might have to run for it. Even a judo expert couldn’t perform miracles.

Now they were closing in, but the burly man seemed less eager than the other. That suggested a particular plan. Rudi broke into a run, and saw, as he’d expected, that the smaller man was swiftly outstripping his companion. Rudi could easily have left them both far behind. But his purpose was rather to separate them. With twenty seconds to deal with the first, he’d be ready to tackle the other immediately afterwards.

Sure enough, the burly man was slow, while his companion ran like a deer. Should he turn at the last moment — or let the first man attack from the rear? A trifle more risky this way, but exciting, and a favorite technique of his.

A final quick glance to make sure that the smaller man was still unarmed. If a knife came into play, it would be fatal to turn his back. No, the other’s hands were empty. Dealing as he thought with a small, terrified girl, the attacker would have no reason to believe that a weapon would be needed.

Rudi’s hand tightened on his own knife, but he didn’t press the button. Instead he made a faint whimpering noise — an added incitement to spur on the assailant.

The supreme moment came quickly. A bent arm encircled his throat from behind, tightened, pulled back — and Rudi exploded into action. Leaning forward with all the whiplash power of his muscular torso, he flung the man over his head. He landed with a bone-crushing jar, face up on the walk. In an agile follow-through, Rudi’s foot came down hard on his victim’s chest, pinning him relentlessly in place. The knife clicked open. Bending swiftly, Rudi made the single expert thrust which was his specialty.

It was over in a matter of seconds. It took longer for Rudi to wonder at the softness under his right foot in the thin slipper.

Rudi peered down just as a brilliant flash of lightning lit up the sky. He saw his own face above the bubbling wound — the same delicate features and the same blue eyes, now glazed in death. Thunder boomed, and warm rain began to lash his suddenly trembling body drenching him to the skin.

“Melita!” he sobbed, oblivious of everything else, comprehending instantly how ring and clothes had conspired to mislead him. For some reason — possibly criminal guilt — she had wished to be thought dead. Some tragic accident to another girl who resembled her must have provided just the right kind of opportunity for the carrying out of an identity switch which had deceived even the police.

“Oh, Melita, why didn’t you let me know you were alive!”

At that moment the other man, racing up, crashed the pipe with all his strength against Rudi’s head.

The next lightning stroke found the street deserted except for the two sprawling figures, both face up in the rain. The man in skirt and sweater, the slender girl in slacks.