Meeting his gaze, I had to concentrate to keep from being stared right out through the window behind me. “I wouldn’t put it like that, Mr. Frenkel,” I told him, “but I don’t mind if you do.” He smiled sweetly and sadly. “That will do for my purpose,” he stated. “I wouldn’t expect you to commit yourself. I’ve been here before, several times, since I heard this morning what you are here for, but I didn’t find you in. I wanted to tell you that I am under the strong impression that I killed Moore. I have had that impression ever since the night it happened—or I should say the next day.” He stopped. I nodded at him encouragingly. “It’s still your turn, Mr. Frenkel.
That’s too vague. Is it just an impression, or can you back it up?” “Not very satisfactorily, I’m afraid.” He was frowning, a cloud on his wide brow for his thunder rumble. “I was hoping you would straighten it out and I would be rid of it. Can I tell you about it confidentially?” “That depends. I couldn’t sign up to keep a confession of murder confidential—” “My God, I’m not confessing!” “Then what are you doing?” He took a deep breath, held it a couple of seconds, and let it out. “My hatred for Waldo Moore,” he said, “was one of the strongest feelings I have ever had in my life. Possibly the strongest. I won’t tell you why, because I have no right to drag in another person’s name. I doubt if any man ever hated another one as I hated him. It went on for months, and Iwas frightened at it, literally frightened. I have always had a profound interest in the phenomenon of death.
The two merged inside of me. There was a fusion, a synthesis of those two reactions to stimuli. The one, the hatred was emotional, and the other, the interest in death, was intellectual; and the two came together. As a result I became preoccupied with the conception of the death of Moore and I thought of it, over and over again, in concrete and specific terms. The conception of a car running over him and crushing the life out of him came to me many times, I don’t know how many, but dozens.” “It wasn’t a conception that hit him, it was a sedan.” “Certainly. I’m not suggesting anything esoteric. I live in a furnished room on Ninety-fourth Street not far from Broadway. One evening I was sitting there in my room, and those conceptions, those I have spoken of, were filling my mind. It was an extremely exhausting experience; it always was. Psychologically it might be compared to a trance resulting from a congestion of the cerebral cells brought about by prolonged and unendurable tension. My head ached and I lay on the bed.” I was getting bored. “And went to sleep and dreamed.” “No, I didn’t. I went to sleep, but I didn’t dream. That is, the overwhelming impression was that I had been asleep. That was a little after one in the morning, ten minutes after one. At the moment of consciousness I was opening the door of the bathroom. I thought to myself that I must have been very deep in sleep to have left the bed and got to the bathroom door at the other side of the room without being aware of it. My mind was completely empty, and rested; there were no dreams in it at all, though there often are when I get up. That was all there was to it that night; I undressed and went to bed and after a while went back to sleep; but in the morning, when I read the news of Moore’s death in the paper—of course it was an electrifying experience for me—my mind was suddenly occupied, completely dominated, by the impression that I had killed him. I think one little circumstance was a major factor in the birth of the impression: the circumstance that the car that killed him had been found parked on Ninety-fifth Street, just one block from where I lived.” “Think again, Mr. Frenkel. The car wasn’t found until nearly noon, so it couldn’t have been in the morning paper.” “What!” He was disconcerted. “Are you sure of that?” “Positive.” “That’s strange.” He shook his head. “That shows what a mind can do with itself.
I clearly remember that the impression was with me that morning when I went to work, so the detail of where the car was found must have come later and only made the impression deeper and stronger. Anyhow, that was when it started, and I’ve had it ever since, and I want to get rid of it.” “I don’t blame you,” I assured him. “That first time you went to sleep, when you were exhausted with conceptions and your head ached, what time was it?” “It was around nine o’clock. Naturally I’ve considered that. I can’t determine it very exactly, but it couldn’t have been far from nine one way or the other.” “Did you know where Moore was that evening? Or where you might expect to find him?” “No.” He hesitated. “I knew—” He left it hanging.
I nudged. “Let’s have it.” “I knew where I surmised he was, or might be. No, that’s not right. I knew whom I surmised he might be with, and that’s all. I prefer not to mention names.” “When you woke up by the bathroom door, how were you dressed?” “As usual. As I had been when I lay down. Suit, shoes—fully dressed.” “No hat or overcoat?” “My God, no. That would have removed any doubt, wouldn’t it?” “Well, a couple of layers. Any other indications—dirty hands or any thing?” “No. Nothing.” “Have you ever mentioned this to anyone, your impression that you killed Moore?”
“Never. When the police were investigating, soon after it happened, a detective called on me and asked if I had been out for a walk late that night and had noticed anyone parking a car on Ninety-fifth Street.
Of course that meant they were interested in me because I lived only a block away. He also asked about certain—about my relations with Moore. I told him frankly that I hated Moore.” “But you didn’t tell him about your impression?” “No, why should I?” “You shouldn’t. Why are you telling me?” Frenkel hunched his shoulders together. His eyes were no longer probing me; now they left me entirely, going down until they reached the floor. He seemed to be getting forlorn, and I hoped he didn’t have another headache coming on. I waited for him to lift his eyes again, which he eventually did.
“It’s very difficult,” he said in a grieved tone. “It may sound foolish, but when I learned that you are investigating Moore’s murder I had a kind of vague hope that if I told you about it you might be able to check up on it—you’re a detective and would know how to do it—perhaps by questioning the landlady and other people there you could establish the fact that I didn’t leave my room that evening.” He looked uncertain. “Or perhaps you could relieve my mind. Maybe I haven’t made it plain what terrible pressure I’ve been under. Perhaps you could tell me whether Mr. Naylor has mentioned any names in connection with this—with that irresponsible report he sent to Mr. Pine. Specifically, has he mentioned mine?” I was no longer bored, but if any gleam showed in my eyes it was against orders.
“Well,” I said offhand, “a lot of names have been mentioned of course. Have you any reason to suppose that Mr. Naylor might single you out?” “No good reason, no. It’s like this, Mr. Truett.” He leaned forward, and apparently he had got his second wind, for he was probing again. “This impression that I killed a man has been the dominating element of my whole mental process for nearly four months. It is vital to me, absolutely vital, that I either validate it or destroy it with as little delay as possible. I need to know, and I have a right to know, if anyone else has the same impression, and if so for what reason and with what justification. It can’t be the same reason as mine, for no one on earth, except you now that I’ve told you, knows what happened to me in my room that evening. So I ask if Mr. Naylor has mentioned my name. If he has, and if your telling me so is not regarded as in confidence, I would like to go to him—” The door opened and Kerr Naylor was in the room.
In spite of Ben Frenkel’s distress and SOS appeal I had sprouted no germ of brotherly feeling for him, or if I had, it had wilted fast at the suspicion that what he chiefly wanted was to pump me. But the sight of Naylor’s neat little colorless face and glittery colorless eyes aroused my protective instinct, not only in behalf of Frenkel, but of the whole stock department. As Frenkel saw who the newcomer was and arose, nearly knocking his chair over in his haste, I told Naylor casually: “Hello, I haven’t seen you today. I’ve been discussing the personnel of his section with Mr. Frenkel. I think—” “He isn’t the head of the section,” Naylor snapped.