almost ten. Everything was on schedule. His previous visits had revealed that the area’s policeman passed along this street at ten fifteen. Punctuality was part of the job, each patrolman navigating his two-mile route every hour. The time it took for the constable to reach this point seldom varied.
The only person in view was a prostitute, whom the chill night had not encouraged to go back to whatever cranny she called home. When she started to approach, the artist gave her a sharp look that made her stop abruptly and disappear in the fog in the opposite direction.
He returned his attention to the shop, noting that its window had a film of dust that dimmed the glow of a lamp inside. A man’s shadow stepped out and swung a shutter into place, closing as usual at ten.
The moment the shadow went back inside, the artist crossed the empty street and reached for the door. If it was already bolted shut, he would knock, with the expectation that the merchant wouldn’t begrudge the further five minutes necessary for a final sale.
But the door wasn’t locked. It creaked as the artist pushed it open and stepped into a shop that was only slightly warmer than the street.
A man turned from lowering an overhead lantern. He was perhaps thirty—thin, pale, and weary-eyed. He wore a black shirt with a band collar. One of the shirt’s buttons didn’t match the others. The cuffs of his trousers were frayed.
Does a great work of art require a great subject? Does the murder of a queen create a grander impact than that of a common person? No. The goal of the art of murder is pity and terror. No one pities a murdered queen or prime minister or man of wealth. The immediate emotion is one of disbelief that even the powerful are not immune to mortal blows. But shock does not linger whereas the sorrow of pity does.
On the contrary, the subject should be young, hardworking, of low means, with hope and ambition, with sights on far goals despite the discouragement that wearies him. The subject should have a loving wife and devoted children dependent on his never-ending exertions. Pity. Tears. Those were the requirements for fine art.
“Just about to lock up? Lucky I caught you,” the artist said as he closed the door.
“The missus is getting dinner ready, but there’s always time for one more. How can I help?” The lean shopkeeper gave no indication that the artist’s beard didn’t appear genuine or that he recognized the man, who in another disguise had visited the shop a week earlier.
“I need four pairs of socks.” The artist glanced behind the counter and pointed. “Thick. Like the kind you have on that shelf up there.”
“Four pairs?” The shopkeeper’s tone suggested that today they would be a sizable purchase. “A shilling each.”
“Too much. I hoped to get a better price buying so many. Perhaps I should go somewhere else.”
Behind a closed door, a child cried in a back room.
“Sounds like somebody’s hungry,” the artist remarked.
“Laura. When isn’t she hungry?” The shopkeeper sighed. “I’ll add an extra pair. Five for four shillings.”
“Done.”
When the shopkeeper walked toward the counter, the artist reached back and secured the bolt on the door. He coughed loudly to conceal the noise, aided by the hollow rumble of the shopkeeper’s footsteps. Following, he removed the mallet from his coat pocket.
The shopkeeper stepped behind the counter and reached for the socks on an upper shelf, where the artist had noticed them a week earlier. “These?”
“Yes, the unbleached ones.” The artist swung the mallet. His arm was muscular. The mallet had a broad striking surface. It rushed through the air and struck the shopkeeper’s skull. The force of the blow made a dull cracking sound, comparable to when a pane of ice is broken.
As the shopkeeper groaned and sank, the artist struck again, this time aiming downward toward the slumping body, the mallet hitting the top of his head. Now the sound was liquid.
The artist removed a smock from his bag and put it over his clothes. After stepping behind the counter, he drew the razor from his pocket, opened it, pulled back the shopkeeper’s now misshapen head, and sliced his throat. The finely sharpened edge slid easily. Blood sprayed across garments on shelves.
The overhead lantern seemed to brighten.
A fine art.
Again, the child cried behind the door.
The artist released the body, which made almost no sound as it settled onto the floor. He closed the razor, returned