From his ninth storey window the city lights created a mosaic against the night. He swigged neat whisky from a tumbler, staring in at all those well-lit apartments. In rooms and kitchens, against curtains drawn, he could see the silhouettes of people having their parties: women’s necks thrown back, mouths agape, laughing their heads off, and men, hanging up their dinner jackets, loosening their neckties, smoking short cropped cigars. He smoked one himself, then raised his drink. Let them have their fun with the lights on, for later, in the dark, he knew it would be murder.