wanted to know if a girl of that
description, living or dead, had been out on a bicycle that night. I spent
several thousand dollars with a private detective agency, having them canvass that
neighborhood—and a fair area around it—with a fine-tooth comb to find if a girl
answering that description currently or ever had existed, with or without a
red bicycle. They came up with a few possible red-headed teenagers, but I
managed to get a gander at each of them, no dice.
"And, after asking around, I picked a head
shrinker of my own and started going to him. Allegedly the best in the city,
certainly the most expensive. Went to him for two months. It was a washout. I
never found out what he thought had happened; he wouldn't talk. You know how
psychoanalysts work, they make you do the talking, analyze yourself, and
finally tell them what's wrong with you, then you yak about it awhile and tell
them you're cured, and they then agree with you and tell you to go with God.
All right if your subconscious knows what the score is and eventually lets it
leak out. But my subconscious didn ' t know which end was up, so I was
wasting my time, and I quit.
" But meanwhile I'd leveled with a few
friends of mine to get their ideas and one of them—a professor of philosophy at
the university—started talking about ontology and that started me reading up on
ontology and gave me a clue. In fact, I thought it was more than a clue, I
thought it was the answer. Until last night. Since last night I know I
was at least partly wrong."
"Ontology—" said Mearson. "Word ' s
vaguely familiar, but will you pin it down for me?"
"I quote you the Webster Unabridged, unexpurgated
version: `Ontology is the science of being or reality; the branch of knowledge
that investigates the nature, essential properties, and relations of being, as
such."
Kane glanced at his wrist watch. "But this is taking
longer to tell than I thought. I'm getting tired talking and no doubt you're
even more tired of listening. Shall we finish this tomorrow?"
" An excellent idea, Larry. " Mearson stood up.
Kane tilted the silver flask for the last drop and handed it
back. " You'll play St. Bernard again? "
***
" I went to the Forty-fourth," Mearson
said. " The incident you described to me is on the blotter all
right. And I talked to one of the two coppers who went back with you to the
scene of the—uh—back to the car. Your reporting of the accident was
real, no question of that."
"I'll start where I left off," Kane said.
"Ontology, the study of the nature of reality. In reading up on it I came
across solipsism, which originated with the Greeks. It is the belief that the
entire universe is the product of one's imagination—in my case, my imagination.
That I myself am the only concrete reality and that all things and all other
people exist only in my mind."
Mearson frowned. "So, then the girl on the bicycle,
having only an imaginary existence to begin with, ceased to exist—uh, retroactively, as of the moment you killed her? Leaving no trace behind her, except a
memory in your mind, of ever having existed?"
" That possibility occurred to me, and I
decided to do something which I thought would verify or disprove it.
Specifically, to commit a murder, deliberately, to see what would happen."
"But—but Larry, murders happen every day, people are
killed every day, and don't vanish retroactively and leave no trace behind
them. "
"But they were not killed by me, " Kane said earnestly. " And if the universe is a product of
my imagination, that should make a difference. The girl on the bicycle is the
first person I ever killed."
Mearson sighed. " So you decided to check by
committing a murder. And shot Queenie Quinn. But why didn ' t she—? "
" No, no, no," Kane interrupted. "I
committed another first, a month or so ago. A man. A man—and there ' s
no use my telling you his name or anything about him because, as of now, he
never existed, like the girl on the
description, living or dead, had been out on a bicycle that night. I spent
several thousand dollars with a private detective agency, having them canvass that
neighborhood—and a fair area around it—with a fine-tooth comb to find if a girl
answering that description currently or ever had existed, with or without a
red bicycle. They came up with a few possible red-headed teenagers, but I
managed to get a gander at each of them, no dice.
"And, after asking around, I picked a head
shrinker of my own and started going to him. Allegedly the best in the city,
certainly the most expensive. Went to him for two months. It was a washout. I
never found out what he thought had happened; he wouldn't talk. You know how
psychoanalysts work, they make you do the talking, analyze yourself, and
finally tell them what's wrong with you, then you yak about it awhile and tell
them you're cured, and they then agree with you and tell you to go with God.
All right if your subconscious knows what the score is and eventually lets it
leak out. But my subconscious didn ' t know which end was up, so I was
wasting my time, and I quit.
" But meanwhile I'd leveled with a few
friends of mine to get their ideas and one of them—a professor of philosophy at
the university—started talking about ontology and that started me reading up on
ontology and gave me a clue. In fact, I thought it was more than a clue, I
thought it was the answer. Until last night. Since last night I know I
was at least partly wrong."
"Ontology—" said Mearson. "Word ' s
vaguely familiar, but will you pin it down for me?"
"I quote you the Webster Unabridged, unexpurgated
version: `Ontology is the science of being or reality; the branch of knowledge
that investigates the nature, essential properties, and relations of being, as
such."
Kane glanced at his wrist watch. "But this is taking
longer to tell than I thought. I'm getting tired talking and no doubt you're
even more tired of listening. Shall we finish this tomorrow?"
" An excellent idea, Larry. " Mearson stood up.
Kane tilted the silver flask for the last drop and handed it
back. " You'll play St. Bernard again? "
***
" I went to the Forty-fourth," Mearson
said. " The incident you described to me is on the blotter all
right. And I talked to one of the two coppers who went back with you to the
scene of the—uh—back to the car. Your reporting of the accident was
real, no question of that."
"I'll start where I left off," Kane said.
"Ontology, the study of the nature of reality. In reading up on it I came
across solipsism, which originated with the Greeks. It is the belief that the
entire universe is the product of one's imagination—in my case, my imagination.
That I myself am the only concrete reality and that all things and all other
people exist only in my mind."
Mearson frowned. "So, then the girl on the bicycle,
having only an imaginary existence to begin with, ceased to exist—uh, retroactively, as of the moment you killed her? Leaving no trace behind her, except a
memory in your mind, of ever having existed?"
" That possibility occurred to me, and I
decided to do something which I thought would verify or disprove it.
Specifically, to commit a murder, deliberately, to see what would happen."
"But—but Larry, murders happen every day, people are
killed every day, and don't vanish retroactively and leave no trace behind
them. "
"But they were not killed by me, " Kane said earnestly. " And if the universe is a product of
my imagination, that should make a difference. The girl on the bicycle is the
first person I ever killed."
Mearson sighed. " So you decided to check by
committing a murder. And shot Queenie Quinn. But why didn ' t she—? "
" No, no, no," Kane interrupted. "I
committed another first, a month or so ago. A man. A man—and there ' s
no use my telling you his name or anything about him because, as of now, he
never existed, like the girl on the
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