The Secret Rendezvous, by Michael Noonan

Photo by Miriam Espacio on Unsplash

The car broke to a halt by the side gate of a park, at the West of the city. It was five minutes to midnight. A uniformed policeman opened the front passenger door and a stocky man, in plain clothes, with a solid, bony face got out of the car.

"It’s over there, Inspector," the policeman pointed.
"Thanks."

The Inspector made his way through the open gate and over the soft, yielding snow to where a group of uniformed policemen and women, together with another plain-clothed officer, were huddled round the prostrate body of a middle aged man. His coat was stained with blood, and his glassy, impassive eyes, stared dumbly up at the night sky.

"So we have another one on our hands!" said the Inspector, grimly, as he looked down at the corpse.
''Fraid so, Inspector,' said a sergeant, "and he was knifed to death. Just like the others."
"And no sign of our elusive killer," said the Inspector as he pulled up the collar of his coat.
"It’s as if he’s vanished into thin air," said the plain-clothed officer.
"He'll be miles away by now," reflected the Inspector.
"And all he's left behind are his footprints," added the sergeant.

The Inspector looked at a line of footprints that led away from the body.

"And he'll get rid of the shoes that made those tracks in pretty short order. You can bet your life on that." He sighed wearily to himself. "He’s an evil swine. But he’s as cunning as a fox; I’ll say that for him."

It was eight o’clock in the morning, in the bedroom of the Stanier household. As always, at that time, the radio automatically switched on - awakening Jack and Karen Stanier, a couple in their late thirties, in time to catch the morning news. The latest killing featured prominently.

"We are making some headway," the somewhat weary voice of the Inspector replied to an interviewer's question. "I can't go into details of course. We don't want to give any advantages to the killer. But believe me, every effort is being made to bring this evil criminal to book."

"By the time they catch him he'll have killed half the city," said Karen, mockingly.
"They don't seem to be making much progress do they," muttered Jack, as he pulled himself out of bed and headed for the bathroom before his wife got there.

Two weeks passed.

"I'm afraid I won’t be able to make it tonight, dear," Jack informed his wife at the breakfast table.
"Why not?" asked Karen, after chewing some of her cereal.

Tuesday night was bridge night for Jack, Karen, Karen's sister and her husband. Though of late it had become a rather tedious, unwelcome chore as far as Jack was concerned; like the performance of some pointless ritual.

‘I’m wanted at the office.’
‘On Tuesday night!’
‘’Fraid so.’
‘What are you doing? Cleaning the place?’
‘It’s one of our periodic strategy meetings.’
‘Strategy meetings!’ she almost spat out the words. ‘You’d think you were planning the next world war.’
‘Well, office politics can be quite explosive at times, Karen,’ he said, with a wry smile on his face. ‘And as the head of my section, the boss insists I be there.’
‘Your boss wants to get a life for himself, if you ask me.’
‘And it wouldn’t look too good if the only excuse I had up my sleeve for my absence was a weekly bridge game.’
‘Tell him you’ve got a cold.’
He shook his head. 'I don't like lying to people. I wouldn't sound convincing anyway.'
‘Well you attend your precious strategy meeting, Jack. We don’t want you to get in bad odour with the boss, do we? I’ll just have to try and find a fourth for bridge, at short notice.’

Night had drawn in. Jack drove his car through the busy city streets, and then down the tree-lined suburban lanes, their pavements carpeted with freshly fallen snow. He left behind the last straggling estates of the city and the car wove down winding country roads, with hardly any traffic about, until, in an isolated spot and surrounded by wild moorland, a striking, modernist villa came in view.

He walked up a small flight of stone steps, then rang the bell of the door. The door opened, and Professor Winterman, of the Metropolitan University, stood in the entrance.

‘Jack. It’s good of you to come. I really appreciate it.’
‘Professor.’
‘Come in. Get out of the cold.’
‘Thanks.’
He entered the Professor’s house.
‘I’ll take your coat.’
‘Sure.’
The Professor hung it up by the door.
‘If you’ll come this way, Jack.’

They entered a large, comfortable room, hung with modern prints, drawings and paintings. The house was indeed as striking and well-designed on the inside as it was without; and had been built according to the precise design specifications of the Professor himself. But then, whatever the Professor put his mind to he made a first class job of it. No one else lived in the house. Professor Winterman was a confirmed bachelor; though there had been a few, albeit ephemeral, romantic entanglements in the past.

‘So you managed to forgo the bridge game, then?’
‘Yeah. Told the wife some guff about a strategy meeting at the office.’
A strategy meeting that had actually taken place, the previous afternoon, during normal office hours.
‘Excellent.’ He winked slyly at Jack. ‘Though this might turn out to be a bit of a strategy meeting as well, Jack.’
‘Eh.’
‘How about a drink, now that you’re here?’
‘I wouldn’t say no to a glass of wine.’

The Professor opened up a well-lit and well stocked cocktail cabinet and poured drinks for his guest and himself. Then they sat down in comfortable chairs before a gas fire.

The Professor was a tall, well-built man in his late forties, with a long, slender, incisive face and keen grey eyes. He was a man of considerable intellectual ability, with a decisive air of confidence about him. And unlike some bookish professors and academics he looked as if he could handle himself in a brawl.

'Well, I hope all this cloak and dagger stuff was worth it?’
‘I don’t play games with people, Jack.’
‘Well, why did you want to see me, Professor? At such short notice?’
'It's to do with the killings.'
'What about them?'
'I think I've got a handle on this thing.'
With some suspicion Jack scrutinized the Professor. 'How you'd mean?'

The Professor's smile was inscrutable. 'Jack, I've been studying this entire case, in some detail. Informally of course.' He did have many other things to attend to as Jack well knew. 'It was just a dilettante exercise at first. A break from academic work. But of late I’ve become quite obsessed with it. Indeed, there have been days when it’s been the sole focus of my attention. And now, I firmly believe I'm getting somewhere.'

The murders' were the scandal and horror of the city. Ten clinical killings, all at night, at various quiet localities of the city over the last two years and three months. Moreover many of the victims were from the social top drawer; adding even further to the authorities alarm, in a class conscious society. Yet the murderer, for all the intensive police inquiry, was still a shadowy, unknown figure, hidden in night and obscurity; though casting a pall of terror and apprehension over the entire city.

'But surely, Professor, these are just the random, motiveless slayings of a madman. Isn't that why the police are having such a hard time of it?'

Winterman took a meditative sip of his brandy. 'I suppose you could call him a madman. But it's a madness that doesn't in any way impair the functioning of his intellect. Indeed, it may well be all the more powerful, precisely because of the narrow obsession of his homicidal mania.' He shrugged. 'As for being motiveless; I couldn't agree with that. There are motives behind these killings, however abnormal and irrational they might appear to the sane mind. These things have their reasons, even if they appear utterly inexplicable to the casual onlooker.'

Jack shifted uneasily in his chair. 'That takes some believing.’

'And also, it must do something to pump up his ego to think that he can create such panic and fear across a huge city, and at the same time virtually render the authorities impotent in their desperate efforts to track him down.'

To Jack it was a disagreeable subject to discuss. Though the very fact that the distinguished Professor, who he had recently got to know as a fellow member of the newly convened Commission for Urban Safety, had saw fit to raise the matter, made him sit up and take notice.

There were few subjects, however dark or complex, which the clarity of his extraordinary brain could not illuminate. The Professor had the most prodigious of intellects. His mind was a vast, pitiless instrument, forever grinding, from the crude dross of life, hard, immutable, gems of knowledge. And yet, in spite of this, it was difficult to believe that even he could have stumbled upon some vital information concerning those baffling murders, unbeknown to the investigating authorities.

'But surely, Professor, the police are pouring more manpower and resources into this investigation all the time. It has top priority as far as they’re concerned.’

'Yes, and it's getting them nowhere.' Winterman shook his head dismissively. 'They have the wherewithal; but they haven't an idea. They don’t even have the haziest description of him. Of course,’ a sliver of a smile appeared on his face, 'they make a few confident noises now and again. But those are just public relations exercises, to try to reassure the public and to keep the politicians on board.’

Jack pulled his face into a scowl. 'But these are experienced professionals. They must know something? They must have some idea?'

'We've waited over two years for them to unearth something, Jack, and we're still waiting.'

Of course it was a difficult case, but it seemed incredible to Jack that the police, with all the organizational and technical resources at their disposal, could be so utterly impotent before the murderous hegemony of that odious sneak killer, who had already strewn ten corpses about the city and who could strike again at any time. He looked the Professor in the face. 'What can you know, that they don't?'

Winterman leaned forward, and said, with his voice at a rather lower register than normal: 'As I’ve already mentioned, this whole business has been at the forefront of my mind these last few months. I’ve thought about it, even when attending to other matters. I've weighed up and accounted for every relevant factor of this case. Dates of the killings, time of day, locations, the means of death, and the identity and profession of each victim. I’ve even taken into account the weather conditions.'

'So what?' asked a nearly exasperated Jack.

'Because of this critical examination, I have managed to discern, behind these apparently random, opportunist killings, a secret design, and a hidden plan, which the police have managed to overlook in their investigations. Not only does this enlighten me about the motives of the killings, it also gives me an insight into the mind of the perpetrator. But what is far more crucial and significant, is that after a thorough, detailed and forensic examination and analysis of all the material and data available, one can actually predict, with confidence and I would say irrefutable certainty, where and when he will strike next.’ He sat back and smiled too himself with unrestrained self-satisfaction.

Jack felt his body shiver as if he was in a cold draught rather than a warm room. 'I don't believe it!' he exclaimed, with palpable alarm in his voice. ‘That can’t be true. You’d have to be a clairvoyant, with supernatural powers, to know something like that.’

‘This is about rational analysis, not mystical mumbo-jumbo, Jack. I know how this person’s mind works. I know what makes him tick. I comprehend the demons and obsessions that drive him. And knowledge, as they say, is power.’ The Professor looked on with imperturbable self-possession and confidence. 'In ten days’ time, not a dozen miles from this building, the next victim is due to be murdered. And that's fact, not supposition.'

‘If all this is true, and it takes some swallowing, Professor, then why on earth haven't you told the police about this? Surely, they should be the first people to know.'

'I thought of that at one time. But, unfortunately, there are a number of problems involved. One; would the police actually believe me, a meddlesome dilettante, as they'd no doubt see it, interfering in their business. Two; even if they did accept my thesis, what would happen if this information got into the hands of the press in some way. The police department can leak like a sieve when there’s a high profile case on hand. This is confidential information I have. It‘s not for public consumption. It’s got to be kept under wraps.’

Jack reluctantly nodded his head. Winterman always thought of everything.

'Well surely,' the Professor went on, 'if such a scenario came about, the alerted murderer would immediately change his plans. And knowing that someone knew all about his modus operandi, he might even leave for another city; realizing that things are too hot here. He might embark on another series of murders, in another locality. Or give up on his murderous activities altogether. And then I'd be in the dark as well as the police.’

'Yes, I see what you mean,' said Jack, who couldn't fault any of those claims.

'There is also a third reason for my decision not to involve the police. Though I’m afraid it is rather more self-orientated than the other two. Though I still think that it’s perfectly valid, nevertheless. Why should they get all the credit and the kudos for all the work and effort I’ve put into this business?’

To Jack this third was indeed the least sympathetic and substantial of the three reasons; being an appeal to intellectual vanity rather than the good of the community.

At last Jack asked Winterman a question he had meant to raise since entering his house that evening. 'Professor, why did you insist on inviting me over here, out of the blue, and telling me this extraordinary story? Out of your many distinguished colleagues and acquaintances? Why me?'

The academic looked across at his accomplice and smiled generously. 'Because I know, through personal contact, and by reputation, that you are a man of total discretion, Jack, whose word, and whose trust and loyalty can be relied upon one hundred percent. And there aren't many people you can say that about these days.'

Jack felt duly flattered at that fulsome tribute; though a core of suspicion still remained.

A strange glint lit Winterman's eyes. 'Just imagine, Jack - if two members of the community, without any assistance from the police or anyone else; acting entirely on their own initiative - were to apprehend this monster, before he could wield the knife, and then bring him to justice. Could you even begin to envisage the prestige and the fame that would flow their way? And the sheer gratitude and thanks which every class, and every member of the community would feel towards them?'

Jack was stunned. 'You want me to help you tackle this serial killer!' So that was what the eerie conversation of the night was leading to.

'Yes,' Winterman nodded, eagerly. 'Because I know his next move. Therefore, we have the advantage over him, and can take him completely by surprise.'

'Two of us, with that maniac!’

'The man's a coward, not a superman. He kills only single people, in sneak attacks, at night, usually from the back. With two people, who know precisely what they're doing, and who know his plans, beforehand, he wouldn't stand a chance.' He paused. 'Jack, the burdens of responsibility now fall upon us, whether we like it or not. I've already explained why we can't get the police involved. Therefore, we have to act on this matter. No one else will. We can’t shirk our duty, and walk away. However onerous it might seem, we owe it to society to take responsibility for stopping this man.’

Jack shrugged his shoulders and nodded his head in reluctant agreement to Winterman's drastic proposal. If the stakes were that high, if they could actually bring to an end the city's two year long nightmare - as the Professor himself, with all his awesome powers of intellect, believed - then perhaps it was worth the risk?

'Well...' Jack struggled to compose his thoughts.

'Good, I knew you'd agree, Jack; a solid, public spirited man like yourself.' He patted him on the shoulder. They got down to a discussion of their plans.
\
‘Just what sort of pattern is involved in these murders?’ asked Jack, at one point.

‘Only I and the murderer know that. It’s of fiendish complexity, Jack. And way above the heads of most people. It involves mathematics, of a pretty high order, and obscure symbolism. There are even some elements of the Kabbalah involved. It took me months of painstaking effort to work it out, after reading all the newspaper cuttings and playing back old news bulletins and documentaries about the murders. I even had to pull out of a number of engagements, in order to give it my full attention. I wish I had the time even to begin to sketch it out to you. Aside from which, I have to be off early in the morning; and I still haven’t finished packing yet.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m afraid I’m a last minute man when it comes to things like this. My main purpose now is in stopping this lethal plan from being fulfilled, and to save the lives of those he wishes to kill. I’ll try and explain the substance of it, once that crucial objective is out of the way.’

‘It sounds as if he’s quite a clever sod? As well as being a sick bastard.’
‘Oh, this isn’t your average killer. If there is such a thing?’
‘D’you have any idea who the killer is? His actual identity.’
‘No. It’s the pattern, the unique configuration of these crimes, and the strange psychology of the killer, that concern me. And which gives me the key to this case. As to who the actual individual is, behind these ghastly murders; well, I haven’t an idea. And I deal in certainties, not speculation.’
‘So it could be anybody?’
‘Yes. But we shall soon find out.’
‘There could be a lucrative book deal in this, for you, Professor?’ suggested Jack, with a hint of sly humour.
‘That’s the very least I expect.’ He put an hand on Jack’s elbow. ‘We shall have our hour in the sun, Jack.’
‘I think I shall need counseling.’
'Jack, I'll be out of town for the best part of the next ten days. As I said before, I have to leave first thing in the morning. There's an important seminar on the psychological interpretation of mythology, at East Hampton, that I've agreed to attend. And this is one engagement I can’t pull out of. Top academics and experts are going to be there, from across the world. They want me to give the key address, chair the subsequent debate, and then help to summarize whatever conclusions might have been reached. Though it might be just a useless talking shop with some of the pompous windbags that will be attending. But,’ he shrugged, ‘we shall see.’

Of course, the worthy Professor was always in demand. Many organizations made liberal use of his expert talents and his powerful, penetrating mind, as if he was a national resource, freely on tap. And Winterman was sufficiently energetic - even, hyper-active - to fulfill many social obligations. And yet, though many viewed the Professor in an extremely positive light, there were inevitably, those of a more saturnine and cynical cast – some of whom indeed were fellow academics - who looked on at him, and his many works, with positive jealousy and loathing.

'Meet me ten days from tonight; that's a Thursday - by the statue of Pan, at the center of Centennial Park.’
'Is that where ..?'

Winterman nodded his head grimly. ‘Yes. At eleven thirty in the evening someone will walk by the statue. Someone who takes an evening stroll through the park, at that time, as part of his daily routine; passing the statue along the way. And who the killer has carefully observed before now.’

‘How can you be so certain?’

‘It’s what the plan specifies, as the next, inevitable move. So you and I must get there at precisely eleven o’clock, Jack; ahead of the killer and his victim. There are plenty of bushes and shrubs we can use as cover.’

‘Okay, I’ll be here,’ said Jack, with leaden resignation. ‘Though I must say, eleven thirty seems a bit late for someone to be taking a stroll.’

‘Obviously something of a night owl.’ He leaned forward. ‘But I must insist, Jack, that you don't mention this to a living soul. Indeed it must be as if this meeting between us tonight never took place. As I mentioned earlier, if this information became any kind of common currency, and the killer got to hear a hint of it, he'd just go back into hiding and our plans would be scotched. That’s why only we can, and must, be privy to it. Confidentiality is the key to this whole business. Also, don't ring, or contact me in any way, during the interim. I must rely on your utmost discretion, Jack. Don’t let me down. Lives are on the line in this business. The next time and place we meet is where I've already stated.' He nodded his head sombrely. 'That's the day of reckoning.'

Jack was equally solemn in reply: 'You have my word, Professor. I won’t let you down.'
‘Good man.’ He patted him on the back again. ‘I know I’m asking a lot. And you’ve every right to be anxious and concerned. It’s certainly how I’d feel. But in ten days you’ll see the logic and inevitability of the whole thing. This is no wild goose chase; believe me. And we will be performing a vital public service.’

Twenty minutes later a sobered Jack Stanier made his way homewards, through the bracing winter night. By the time he reached his doorstep he'd concluded that playing a few rubbers of bridge, however tedious it might have been, would have been a much more agreeable, though less stimulating a prospect, than the grim undertaking he had agreed to that night.

For Jack, the ten days dragged interminably. The fear and tension caused by the prospect of coming face to face with that monster proved at times almost unbearable. His wife and work colleagues, sensing that something was amiss, expressed their concerns about the state of his health. He told them that he was under the weather, and would be right in a few days’ time. Yet the knowledge that he would be doing an immense service to society and that the redoubtable Professor Winterman would be there with him - having already assured him that they would be inevitably successful in that chilling confrontation - made him able to face, despite his terrors, that awesome challenge.

At length the evening came.

The park was eerie and quiet, apart from the rustle of the trees in the wind and the cry of a distant bird. It was ten minutes since he had arrived at the scene, by foot, and by an indirect route, as instructed by the Professor; after giving his wife an excuse about meeting some old school chums at a restaurant. Snow was falling from the sky and was inches thick upon the ground. Behind him, in the darkness, stood the statue of Pan on his lofty pedestal, with his horns, scraggy beard, cloven feet and reed pipes. A spirited Victorian interpretation of that timeless creature of myth. A cold wind scythed across the park, blowing thick flakes of snow onto his face. He shivered, but not just from the bracing weather. Before him the park stretched like a vast, impenetrable shadow.

He stood near a gnarled old tree, that he could recall climbing in his youth. The sudden renewal of those happy memories, from a more innocent time, cheered him for a while, and he smiled to himself and nodded his head. But the feeling was brief and fragile. For now, in the winter darkness, in the cold night air, and divested of its leaves, it didn't appear as the friendly presence of old, but seemed gaunt, and strange, and sinister.

He stamped his feet and blew warm breath into his cupped hands. He'd needed an ample stock of Dutch courage to face the prospect before him that night, and he carried a whisky flask in a side pocket; but the effects of the drink were rapidly wearing off, leaving him feeling jaded and sluggish.
All his doubts and misgivings began to burgeon. Was it all some elaborate practical joke on the Professor's part; an outlandish confidence trick, with himself as the unwitting dupe? Should he be there at all, in a deserted park, on such a cold, wintry night? On such a bizarre venture? He thought again of the Professor's smug, superior demeanor, and his haughty, disdainful manner, and wondered if he could entirely be trusted?

His nerves were jolted by the sudden barking of a dog in the far distance. A further ten minutes passed, and he wondered why the Professor was late, when he had insisted that they both get there on time? The idea of being there, on his own, with a ruthless killer on the loose, was almost too unbearable to think about. Then he heard some footsteps in the distance, that alerted all his senses. He picked out a distinctly human form, at first a mere shadow that moved through the desolate park. It steadily came towards him.

'Professor!' said Jack, in as loud a voice as he felt appropriate.

'Jack,' came Winterman's unmistakable voice, in reply.

Despite his earlier misgivings, a wave of relief and euphoria broke, like soft spray, over Jack's hunched, tension-ridden body.

'Am I glad you've arrived,' he whispered into the pool of darkness still separating them; 'with that maniac out there.’

'He isn't out there, Jack. He's right here.'

Before he could even begin to ponder the meaning of those cryptic words, Jack perceived a glint of reflected light on the polished edge of a knife blade. A knife directly pointed towards him, and held, fixedly, in Winterman's right hand.

The Professor reached the point of rendezvous, and Jack could just make out his face in the weak light. He was visibly grinning, as if at the enjoyment of some private joke.

'How else d'you think I knew when he'd strike?'

Blood drained from Jack's face. In the space of a mere second the whole terrible truth dawned upon him, shattering the entire edifice of his confidence, as a surging tide would topple a child's sand-castle. Stunned into disbelief he faced the murderer. 'It was you! All the time!' He shook his head with infinite regret.

'Of course.'

Jack - now utterly unsure and uncertain of himself; his breath tremulous and his hands shaking - took some steps backwards. He lost his footing and almost fell over. He shook his arms and screamed in terror. But it was too late to escape or summon help. Winterman thrust the knife blade into his body.

'What did I tell you Jack,' cawed Winterman with malicious humour; ‘he would never dream of attacking two men. That's why he was so grateful you consented to be alone.'

The knife blade entered repeatedly Jack's torso. The body fell untidily to the snow covered ground. He rolled over, let out a low moan and expired.

The killing done, the murderer disappeared from the scene. The next morning the body was discovered. The investigation began anew.

---

Michael Noonan lives in Halifax (famous for its Piece Hall), West Yorkshire, England, and has a background in food production, retail and office work. Have had stories, entitled, The Stairway to Paradise, and The Hold-up, published in the anthology volumes, ‘Even More Tonto Tales’, and ‘Shades of Sentience’; the latter an Australian publication. He wrote an article on the Kubrick movie 2001 A Space Odyssey that has been published by Bridge Eight Magazine, in Florida; a fairy-tale he penned, entitled, The Guardian of the Wood, has been published in the Fantasy Arts and Studies journal in France, and a story he wrote, called, The Personality Cult, has been published by Terror House Magazine, based in Budapest, Hungary. He's had an article on the Titanic published in a literary anthology called Watermarks, in aid of the Calder Valley Flood Relief Charity,  and an article he wrote – using the pseudonym, Albert Hall - about J.G. Ballard has been published on the cultural literary website; www.literaryyard.com. He won second prize in the Pen Nib International Writing Competition 2021 for an essay, Who Guards the Guardians (about the unacknowledged power of the press and the media). He's had a short story, The Labyrinth, printed in the anthology volume, Colp: Underground, in Australia, and his tale, All the Time in the World has been published in Fission #2 Volume 1: Stories from the British Science Fiction Association. His story, Count on Me, has been published in the anthology collection, And the Dead Shall Sleep No More: Volume 11. He has had a volume of his short stories published, entitled, Seven Tall Tales, which is available at Amazon as a book or a kindle. His comic one act play, entitled, Elvis and the Psychiatrist, has been shown at the Sundance ten minute comedy festival at the Sixth Theatre in Racine Wisconsin, and another one act drama, A Restive Audience, has been published in HELLO GODOT! AN ANTHOLOGY OF ONE ACT PLAYS Volume 2 by Som. He also enjoys painting, drawing and photography.