Solomon Iron.

Part III - The Song of the Doomed.

This is Part III of the limited series Solomon Iron. In Part II, we read about the murder of David Robert, and what seemed to be the birth of Solomon’s conscience.

Read Part I, here.

Read Part II, here.

Read Part IV, here.

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The execution of a successful murder demands the construction of an educated plan. For a predator, instinct is essential. For a killer, preparation is everything. The last few weeks have been a study of the old songwriter’s nocturnal routines. Despite being a prisoner of his seventies, Estrada still frequented a selection of his favourite haunts scattered across the city. Unique restaurants and bars catering to the high-fashioned and influential castes of cultured society. Adorned in his moniker black suit and matching fedora, and beset by the curse of infamous libertines of a bygone era, Estrada was blind to the absurdity of his endeavours. He sailed amongst the young like a plague ship, his aged sails casting a shadow that everyone wished to forget. Gazes avoided him. Those caught in his path feigned interest, and listened, politely; but, he was a revenant. A reminder of that dark shadow which followed after the radiance of vanity faded.

Despite his burning appetite for life, age keeps the old songwriter from emulating the glorious endeavours of his youth. A weakened heart and a failing body are weak allies against the punishment of booze-filled nights in pursuit of social acolytes. The man’s recuperation is slow, and an indulgent night demanded its taxes. The days that follow are spent in seclusion. Estrada remains hidden behind the heavy curtains of his three-storey city home, a vampire hiding from a world that can’t accept its existence. It takes time for the old man’s body to flush the toxins from his system. A steady diet of painkillers and supplemented sleep are the old man’s remedy. And this self-imposed hibernation is the opportunity Solomon will seize to complete his work. 

The night before, Solomon watched the Estrada slink into a place called The Traditionalist - a wretched bar inspired by the ragtime jazz of the last century. Its governed by a simple rule: if the doors are open, drinks are served. It’s a place that belongs on a Parisian street, deserving of any ghost of Hemingway. Estrada left The Traditionalist late, and rather than hail a taxi, the old man decided to stumble home, accompanied only by the fumes of red wine and cigarette smoke. Solomon followed, much like he had done many nights before, stalking from the shadows. 

The temptation to kill the songwriter then and there had been strong - almost strong enough to sway him from his better judgement. The murder would have been quick. It would’ve been less cruel than his planned execution, but compulsive killings carried risks, and in the business of professional murder, risk was something he didn’t want to deal with - especially if his employees were paying him good money to make a murder look like natural death. A drunk old man ambushed on the street could have a messy aftermath, one which Solomon would prefer to avoid. Instead, he had waited for this night, when he would be guided by his informed planning. 

Solomon takes his time to walk through the city. That dark half of himself wants to relish in the approach, to enjoy each step that takes him closer to his quarry; and against that lust, he can feel the resentment of what he is about to do push back. He turns off the main avenue and leaves the high street of bars and restaurants behind. The side street is lined with small stores, their dark windows following him as he passes by. Tall apartment blocks loom overhead, the small portals to the dwellings inside are black and soulless, like dead eyes. There are a few windows that punctuate the dark monoliths and his curiosity wonders what deeds are being done in those glowing compartments. A wind gathers at the head of the street and blows a tumbling wave of trash across Solomon’s way. He adjusts his earphones to keep out the harsh howl. He checks the time. By his estimation, he will reach Estrada’s home before the soundtrack to the songwriter’s death reaches its conclusion. Fitting, he thinks. 

The face of the city changes as he continues on. Trees begin to emerge amongst the concrete like ancient pillars, lasts vestiges of another age. Apartment blocks begin to give way to rows of brownstone houses. The barren streets and alleyways of the inner city dissolve into interlaced networks of greenbelts and tight fisted metro stations. By day, a pedestrian mass of business suits and pencil skirts criss-cross the neighbourhood, hustling down the staircases to the underground. On weekends, cyclists and joggers navigate the trails and reward themselves with chilled beverages and luxurious breakfasts. He has spent a lot of time wandering these streets, watching Estrada, and he knows them well. 

Solomon turns onto a street where the darkness of night is banished. Street lamps cast wide pools of light and the odd night-light shines above a front door. Darkness swims between the islands of illumination and the way ahead looks like a tenebrous archipelago. There is no movement in any of the windows, but Solomon still keeps to the darkest parts, moving along the waterways of shadow. A delicate song, called Shallow Whisper, floats in his ears. The droning voice of Estrada hangs over the fluttering piano keys like a storm cloud. Here, the world sleeps as he moves to destroy a universe. 

Estrada’s home stands at the end of the street where larger houses loom like lonely castles - each estate nestled behind a wall of poplar trees. Solomon joins the shadows that lurk beneath the canopy of leaves. Beyond, all the windows, barring one, are black. A lone window on the second floor shines brightly against the dark facade of the brownstone. A pit of shadows stretches between the iron gate and the front door. A slight breeze creeps through the poplars and the last verse of Shadow Whisper fades to silence. The sudden silence drowns the world beneath a breathless tide. Solomon removes his earphones and tucks them into the breast pocket of his jacket. His eyes don’t move from the house as he pulls a pair of gloves from another pocket and slips them over his hands. He embraces the silence as he undoes the latch of the gate. The metallic creak of its hinges sound unnatural in the stillness. 

Solomon crosses over the threshold. 

He pauses only to turn and latch the gate closed behind him. 

With a few quick strides, he traverses the pit of shadows and comes to a halt before the front door. He glances over his shoulder. 

The street is barely visible from where he stands. The line of trees block him from any wandering eyes and he returns his attention to the front door. From his coat he pulls a purse of folded leather and opens it to reveal a pair of lock picks. Armed with these deft tools, he begins the sensitive operation of undoing the front door lock. 

He inserts the picks into the keyhole, and begins to undo the mechanisms with gentle caresses. He shifts the picks, feeling for the pins of the lock. Methodically, he sinks the two prongs deeper, easing each pin into the desired position. He pauses. There is a slight resistance. He twists and repositions the pins before asserting the slightest pressure. Something gives way and he feels the last pin shift into place. He holds the picks in place, and turns his wrists. The lock opens with an audible click and the door swings inward. He waits for a moment and listens for movement. The silence remains undisturbed. Solomon slips into the house and closes the door behind him.

Inside, it is dark and Solomon is met by a strange unexpected smell. Toasted cinnamon. It fills the entry hall. To his left, a staircase leads to the second floor. A soft light shines at its summit. He knows that is where he must go. That is where his quarry resides, but he does not take the first step. He would first like to explore his murder grounds. He would like to catch a glimpse into the man’s life. He absorbs the silence, and without unsettling it, he moves through the house.

The hallway is long and paintings, organised in even rows, line each wall. He steps lightly along the carpeted floor, and despite the poor light, he is able to make out the twisted, melancholic landscapes that adorn each canvas. Black and grey pigments reveal arachnid trees lurching across the brown shades of gauzy swamps. Shattered hills shrouded in banks of murky clouds tower over ruined churches. Haunting city avenues swallow pitiful lamps, and in the darkness of those streets, forever captured in the gloom, there are solitary figures of sadness. In better light, Solomon may have spent time appreciating these paintings. They seemed to be windows into his own soul, but in the darkness of the hallway, they carry a beauty better left alone. Better left uncorrupted. He treads lightly down the unlit passage and continues his expedition into the songwriter’s house. At the end of the hall, a large space awaits. 

In the centre of the new room, a ring of couches encircles a wide coffee table. To the left, the deep maw of a hearth set in the far wall gapes at Solomon as he enters. In another corner, A grand piano squats like a captured behemoth. A collection of guitars stand in the third and in the last quadrant a large dinner table stands flanked by chairs. The lounge is empty. No sign of Estrada. A blanket lies tangled across one of the couches and he can see the subtle indentations of a person pressed into the cushions, like some bizarre household fossil. He walks over to where Estrada reclined on the couch and retraces the man’s steps. He begins at the piano. From there, he moves past the dinner table toward the cluster of guitars. He tries to imagine the old man shifting amongst his possessions. He plucks a string of one of the guitars. The thickness of his gloved finger barely draws a notable sound from the steel chord. Instead, it unleashes an awkward wobble which Solomon mutes with a quick thumb. He walks beside the hearth and runs a finger along the edge of the mantle. A vast array of statues, picture frames and awards stand neatly arranged upon the ledge. The scent of toasted cinnamon still lingers in the air, but now he finds it pleasant and comforting. 

He moves with a leisurely ease. Death has entered the house with him and it follows in his footsteps. He can feel it. He can hear its dirge behind him as it conjures the soft dream-like strings of a child’s music box. The harmony permeates the air, and like a phantom, Solomon floats from one room to another with the haunting curiosity of a man set to kill. Once, the delicate chime of death’s approach had been a thrilling interlude, but now, he can hardly stand it. The notes are sharp. Its tune turned sickly sweet. It is the song of the doomed, he thinks. It will be Estrada’s last song. It, Solomon thinks, is his song.