beneath the needlelike point of the knife, slid along her throat to the
neck of her bright red robe. Watching the minuscule flow of blood as if
he were a an extremely rare scientist observing bacterium through a
microscope, pleased by it, nearly mesmerized by it, he said, “Him? Who
is ‘him’? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know,” she said weakly.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Are you him?” she bit her lip. “The one who-who’s cut up all those
other women?”
Looking up from her throat, he said, “I see. I see how it is. Of
course. You mean the one they call the Butcher. You think I’m the
Butcher.”
“Are you?”
“I’ve been reading a great deal about him in the Daily News. He slits
their throats, doesn’t he? From one ear to the other. Isn’t that
right?” He was teasing her and enjoying himself immensely.
“Sometimes he even disembowels them. Doesn’t he? Correct me if I’m
wrong. But that’s what he does sometimes, isn’t it?”
She said nothing.
“I believe I read in the News that he sliced the ears off one of them.
When the police found her, her ears were on the nightstand beside her
bed.”
She shuddered more violently than ever.
“Poor little Edna. You think I’m the Butcher. No wonder you’re so
frightened.” He patted her shoulder, smoothed her dark hair as if he
were quieting an animal. “I’d be scared too if I were in your shoes
right now.
But I’m not. I’m not in your shoes and I’m not this guy they call the
Butcher. You can relax.”
She opened her eyes and searched his, trying to tell whether he spoke
the truth.
,What kind of man do you think I am, Edna?” he asked, pretending to
have been hurt by her suspicion. “I don’t want to harm you. I will if
I must. I will cause you a great deal of harm if you don’t cooperate
with me. But if you’re docile, if you’re good to me, I’ll be good to
you. I’ll make you very happy, and I’ll leave you just like I found
you. Flawless. You are flawless, you know. Perfectly beautiful. And
your breath smells like strawberries. Isn’t that nice?
That’s such a nice touch, that scentful way for us to begin, smell of
strawberries on your breath. Were you eating when I knocked?”
“You’re crazy,” she said softly.
“Now, Edna, let’s have cooperation. Were you eating strawberries?
” Tears began to form in the corners of her eyes.
He pressed a bit harder with the knife.
She whimpered.
“Well?” he said.
“Wine.”
“What?”
“It was wine.”
“Strawberry wine?”
“Yes.”
“Is there any left?”
“Yes.
“I’d like to have some.”
which Graham had suddenly found himself so uncomfortable.
“You’re a most interesting guest, Mr. Harris.”
“Thank you. You’re interesting yourself. I don’t see how you can keep
your wits about you. I mean, doing this much live television, five
nights a week-”
“But the fact that it’s live is what makes it so exciting, ” Prine said.
“Being on the air live, risking all, taking a chance of making a fool of
yourself-that keeps the juices flowing.
That’s why I hesitate to accept one of these offers to syndicate the
show or to go network with it. They’d want it on tape, all neatly
edited down from two hours to ninety minutes. And that wouldn’t be the
same.”
The program director, a heavyset man in a white turtleneck sweater and
houndstooth-check slacks, said, “Twenty seconds, Tony.”
“Relax,” Prine told Harris. “You’ll be off in fifteen more minutes.”
Harris nodded. Prine seemed friendly-yet he could not shake the feeling
that the night was going to go sour for him, and soon.
Anthony Prine was the host of Manhattan at Midnight, an informal
two-hour-long interview program that originated from a local New York
City station. Manhattan at Midnight provided the same sort of
entertainment to be found on all other talk shows-actors and actresses
plugging their latest movies, authors plugging their latest books,
musicians plugging their latest records, politicians plugging their
latest campaigns (as yet unannounced campaigns and thus unfettered by
the equal-time provisions of the election laws)-except that it presented