BOMBA 14 by Jack Ritchie — Copyright 1957 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Larry Sternig Agency.

THE FORGIVING GHOST by C. B. Gilford — © 1961 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

THE CHILDREN OF NOAH by Richard Matheson — Copyright 1957 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Harold Matson Company.

AN ATTRACTIVE FAMILY by Robert Arthur — Copyright 1957 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

LET THE SUCKER BEWARE by Charles Einstein — Copyright 1958 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Lurton Blassingame.

FAIR GAME by John Cortez — Copyright 1957 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author’s agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

THE CURIOUS FACTS PRECEDING MY EXECUTION by Richard Stark — © 1960 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

YOUR WITNESS by Helen Nielsen — Copyright 1958 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

BLACKOUT by Richard Deming — © 1961 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

THE OCTOBER GAME by Ray Bradbury — Copyright 1948 by Short Stories, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Harold Matson Company.

STOP CALLING ME “MISTER” by Jonathan Craig — Copyright 1956 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

THE LAST ESCAPE by Jay Street — © 1960 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Theron Raines.

NOT A LAUGHING MATTER by Evan Hunter — Copyright 1958 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

MOST AGREEABLY POISONED by Fletcher Flora — Copyright 1957 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

THE BEST-FRIEND MURDER by Donald E. Westlake — Copyright 1959 by H. S. D. Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agents, Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

As you know, I have long been a student of the criminal method; and I have been told recently, by certain well-informed persons, that the crime rate in this country is beyond belief.

On the face of it, this is an inexact statement and one which might force me to seek other employment. However, I can assure you that the crime rate may be much greater than the local and national law enforcement agencies believe. The reason for this sad state of affairs, you see, is due to the fact that no one can properly enter the perfect crime into the body of the statistical quotient.

It is because the perfect crime goes unsung that I have decided to write this little essay for your enlightenment and edification. I have great respect for crime and the people involved with it, and such being the case, I deplore the careless crime. It has no finesse, no sense of balance, no feeling of accomplishment.

If one is to undertake a “job,” it is well to remember that it should be done well. I remember reading that the first recorded crime was the murder of a young man by his brother. The brother did a poor job of it, his act was soon known to one and all, and he received his just deserts. Therefore, one should consider all possibilities. Over the years, in my line of endeavor, I have had the pleasure of viewing many criminal types: embezzlers, pickpockets, assassins, and oh! so many more. These gentlemen — and gentlewomen — have led me into a unique way of life. I have made their crimes pay... for me... but I have always cherished in my bosom the wish to emulate them in their chosen profession.

At last, I can report that I have done so; I have committed a perfect crime. Without fear of contradiction, one can state that one wishes to be the best in one’s field — and in that profession which operates outside the laws of our society, the perfect crime is the ultimate. The perfect crime is the royal flush, the hole in one, the home run in the ninth with bases loaded.

I planned for many years, worked ceaselessly to perfect myself, to establish a reputation without blemish, all this bearing on that one act, that one great moment. At last I achieved my goal, at last I...

Lightning only strikes once — so I was informed years and years ago by a lightning-rod salesman. That matches aren’t to be played with — if memory serves me correctly — was something told me by my mother when I was a child, and shortly after I had playfully attempted to burn to the ground the very satisfactory house in which we were then living. To this store of man’s wisdom, our story makes its contribution: bombs may prove a shattering experience. And they have also been known to disrupt associations of long standing.

The big square package was alone in an island of space near the baggage windows. It was number fourteen in the last six years and we were supposed to see that it didn’t kill anybody.

Pete and I studied the faces of the crowd behind the ropes. That was part of our job — to see if maybe somebody was licking his lips a little wetter than anybody else.

Pete chewed on his cigar. “I see the same eager types every time we’re waiting for an idiot to jump out of a twentieth story window. Bet half the city knows about this by now.”

The ropes kept the curious ones forty yards away from the box. I thought it should have been more than forty, but I wasn’t running that part of the show.

A detail of men finished laying the twelve-by-two planks on the concrete steps and the bomb disposal truck drove up the improvised ramp and into the terminal’s big lobby. It was an unwieldy vehicle, a thing of steel mesh and wickerwork with high sides that would divert the force of an explosion upwards where it would do the least harm.

The truck stopped within fifteen feet of the box before O’Brien and Hastings climbed out of the cab.

Pete stepped on his cigar. “The main event,” he said and walked over to them. I hesitated a few moments and then followed, keeping the truck between me and the box.

O’Brien grinned. “They’re setting up cameras. I’ll have to remember my right profile’s my fortune.”

Pete helped him strap on the front harness. “I admire these hero boys. They’re devil-may-care all right. And cute too.”

O’Brien stepped closer to the box.

“Hold it,” I said quickly. “If nobody’s got any objections, I think Pete and I’ll take our bodies a little farther away from here first.”

We went back to our station behind one of the big marble pillars.

One of the patrolmen left the ropes and joined us. He talked close to our ears. “That guy with the light hair and tan jacket over there near the candy stand. I’ll swear I saw him in the crowd at the library last week.”

We looked at the faces behind the line and found him. He was a small man with a light complexion. His bright eyes had no attention for anything but what was going to happen near the truck.

Pete started to move, but I touched his arm. “He can wait a minute.”

O’Brien and Hastings were alone on their stage. They went to the truck and got the long pole with the steel mesh basket.

The emptiness of silence took over as O’Brien bent over the package. He looked up for a moment and I thought I saw a grin through his mask. Then he put both hands gently on the package and began to lift it.

The explosion was a giant’s roar that echoed and reechoed through the big terminal.

I heard Pete curse. And when I stepped from behind the pillar, O’Brien and Hastings were two costumed dolls that lay twisted grotesquely on the marble floor.

I bulled my way through the screaming crowd and got to the little man. He didn’t know I was there. Not even when I put a hand around his thin arm.

He was still in his own world. His protruding eyes were on the two broken men on the floor and he smiled.

Not all ghosts, I assure you, are friendly or forgiving or translucent. Some are ghostly. Others are just plain ghastly — and give ghosts, generally, a bad name.

The murder — although Claude Crispin, the murderer, was the only one who knew that that’s what it was — occurred in broad daylight, in bright sunshine. But not, of course, within view of any casual spectators. Nobody saw it; so everybody took it for what Claude Crispin said it was, an accident.

The first that any outsiders knew of it was when Claude Crispin raced his motor boat in from the center of the lake, and started shouting and waving his arms at the nearby joy riders and water skiers. He told them something about his wife’s falling in the water and his not being able to find her.

Immediately, all the boats — some with their skiers still dangling behind them — raced for the spot. They found it when they found the swimming dog. Momo was the belligerent little Pekingese which had belonged to Mrs. Crispin. Claude babbled something to the searchers about how the dog had fallen into the water, and Mrs. Crispin had jumped in to save her. Here was the dog still swimming, of course, but there was no sign of the mistress.

Somebody apparently thought that as long as they were there, they might as well save the dog. So Momo was pulled aboard one of the boats, where she showed her gratitude by shaking the water out of her fur rather indiscriminately and snarling at her rescuers. Claude looked especially askance at that part of the operation. Now that the Pekingese had provided the visible reason why Mrs. Crispin, a poor swimmer, had been in the water at all, he would really have preferred to let her drown.

Meanwhile, nearly all the other occupants of the boats had jumped into the water and were doing a lot of diving and splashing around. Claude, watching them, wrung his hands, wore an anguished expression, and generally gave the appearance of an anxious, worrying, tragic husband.

They were at it for some twenty minutes. But at the end of that time everyone was pretty well exhausted, and even the most enthusiastic divers were ready to admit that they weren’t going to find Mrs. Crispin either dead or alive. When they related this fact to Claude, he burst into tears and started to shake so violently that a stranger had to climb into his boat and steer it back to shore for him.

Thereafter, it became an official matter. The sheriff was summoned and he came out to the lake with a couple of his deputies. Preparation got underway for a dragging operation. The sheriff himself, a kindly, sympathetic man, sat down with Claude and got the whole story from him.

Yes, the Crispins were city folks, Claude said, and they’d vacationed for several summers at this lake. One of their favorite pastimes had been to rent a motor boat and cruise aimlessly around. Claude was a pretty fair swimmer, though he didn’t get much practice these days. Mrs. Crispin wasn’t afraid of the water, but she’d been a very poor swimmer.

“Why didn’t she wear a life jacket, like the rules say?” the sheriff demanded, but without too much harshness.

Claude shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “You know how women are,” he answered. “My wife had a very good figure, looked fine in a bathing suit. So she was always interested in getting a tan. If she’d worn one of those jackets, it would have covered her up and she wouldn’t have gotten the tan. So she just left the jacket in the bottom of the boat. Vanity, I guess you’d call it.”

The sheriff nodded sagely. “And you say she jumped in on account of the dog?”

Claude let himself sound bitter. “She loved that dog as much as if it had been a kid. Took it with her everywhere. Don’t ask me how the dog fell overboard, though. Usually my wife carried it around in her arms. But this time she was letting it ride up front by itself. I don’t know whether it fell or jumped. The thing never seemed to have much sense. But there it was in the water suddenly, and my wife started screaming. Now, I’d have stopped the boat and jumped in after it myself, but my wife didn’t wait even to ask me. The next thing I knew she was gone too. I slowed the boat down and did a U-turn, but by the time I got back to the place, my wife had already disappeared. I cut the motor and went in after her, but I never did see her. I don’t know what happened. She was just gone.”

The sheriff seemed to understand. “Sometimes,” he said, “when a poor swimmer jumps into deep water, gets a cramp or something, he just sinks to the bottom and never does come up. I guess it was one of those cases.”

And that was the verdict. Probably because the idea never once crossed his mind, the sheriff didn’t even mention murder.

While your corpulent correspondent is among the first to admit he would be willing to shed a few pounds, he is shudderingly averse to losing them as did Mr. Ketchum in the sleeping town of Zachry, pop. 67!

It was just past three a.m. when Mr. Ketchum drove past the sign that read Zachry: pop. 67. He groaned. Another in an endless string of Maine seaside towns. He closed his eyes hard a second, then opened them again and pressed down on the accelerator. The Ford surged forward under him. Maybe, with luck, he’d reach a decent motel soon. It certainly wasn’t likely there’d be one in Zachry: pop. 67.

Mr. Ketchum shifted his heavy frame on the seat and stretched his legs. It had been a sour vacation. Motoring through New England’s historic beauty, communing with nature and nostalgia was what he’d planned. Instead, he’d found only boredom, exhaustion and over-expense.

Mr. Ketchum was not pleased.

The town seemed fast asleep as he drove along its Main Street. The only sound was that of the car’s engine, the only sight that of his raised headbeams splaying out ahead lighting up another sign. Speed 15 Limit.

“Sure, sure,” he muttered disgustedly, pressing down on the gas pedal. Three o’clock in the morning and the town fathers expected him to creep through their lousy hamlet. Mr. Ketchum watched the dark buildings rush past his window. Good-by Zachry, he thought. Farewell, pop. 67.

Then the other car appeared in the rear-view mirror. About half a block behind, a sedan with a turning red spotlight on its roof. He knew what kind of car it was. His foot curled off the accelerator and he felt his heartbeat quicken. Was it possible they hadn’t noticed how fast he was going?

The question was answered as the dark car pulled up to the Ford and a man in a big hat leaned out of the front window. “Pull over!” he barked.

Swallowing dryly, Mr. Ketchum eased his car over to the curb. He drew up the emergency brake, turned the ignition key and the car was still. The police car nosed in toward the curb and stopped! The right front door opened.

The glare of Mr. Ketchum’s headlights outlined the dark figure approaching. He felt around quickly with his left foot and stamped down on the knob, dimming the lights. He swallowed again. Damned nuisance this. Three a.m. in the middle of nowhere and a hick policeman picks him up for speeding. Mr. Ketchum gritted his teeth and waited.

The man in the dark uniform and wide-brimmed hat leaned over into the window. “License.”

Mr. Ketchum slid a shaking hand into his inside pocket and drew out his billfold. He felt around for his license. He handed it over, noticed how expressionless the face of the policeman was. He sat there quietly while the policeman held a flashlight beam on the license.

“From New Jersey.”

“Yes, that... that’s right,” said Mr. Ketchum.

The policeman kept staring at the license. Mr. Ketchum stirred restlessly on the seat and pressed his lips together. “It hasn’t expired,” he finally said.

He saw the dark head of the policeman lift. Then, he gasped as the narrow circle of flashlight blinded him. He twisted his head away.

The light was gone. Mr. Ketchum blinked his watering eyes.

“Don’t they read traffic signs in New Jersey?” the policeman asked.

“Why, I... You mean the sign that said p-population 67?”

“No, I don’t mean that sign,” said the policeman.

“Oh.” Mr. Ketchum cleared his throat. “Well, that’s the only sign I saw,” he said.

“You’re a bad driver then.”

“Well, I’m—”

“The sign said the speed limit is fifteen miles an hour. You were doing fifty.”

“Oh. I... I’m afraid I didn’t see it.”

“The speed limit is fifteen miles an hour whether you see it or not.”

“Well... at... at this hour of the morning?”

“Did you see a timetable on the sign?” the policeman asked.

“No, of course not. I mean, I didn’t see the sign at all.”

“Didn’t you?”

Mr. Ketchum felt hair prickling along the nape of his neck. “Now, now see here,” he began faintly, then stopped and stared at the policeman. “May I have my license back?” he finally asked when the policeman didn’t speak.

The policeman said nothing. He stood on the street, motionless.

“May I—?” Mr. Ketchum started.

“Follow our car,” said the officer abruptly and strode away.

Mr. Ketchum stared at him, dumbfounded. Hey wait! he almost yelled. The officer hadn’t even given him back his license. Mr. Ketchum felt a sudden coldness in his stomach.

“What is this?” he muttered as he watched the policeman getting back into his car. The police car pulled away from the curb, its roof light spinning again.

Mr. Ketchum followed.

“This is ridiculous,” he said aloud. They had no right to do this. Was this the Middle Ages? His thick lips pressed into a jaded mouth line as he followed the police car along Main Street.

Two blocks up, the police car turned. Mr. Ketchum saw his headlights splash across a glass store front. Hand’s Groceries read the weather-worn letters.

There were no lamps on the street. It was like driving along an inky passage. Ahead were only the three red eyes of the police car’s rear lights and spotlight; behind only impenetrable blackness. The end of a perfect day, thought Mr. Ketchum; picked up for speeding in Zachry, Maine. He shook his head and groaned. Why hadn’t he just spent his vacation in Newark; slept late, gone to shows, eaten, watched television?

The police car turned right at the next corner, then, a block up, turned left again and stopped. Mr. Ketchum pulled up behind it as its lights went out. There was no sense in this. This was only cheap melodrama. They could just as easily have fined him on Main Street. It was the rustic mind. Debasing someone from a big city gave them a sense of vengeful eminence.

Mr. Ketchum waited. Well, he wasn’t going to haggle. He’d pay his fine without a word and depart. He jerked up the hand brake. Suddenly he frowned, realizing that they could fine him anything they wanted. They could charge him $500 if they chose! The heavy man had heard stories about small town police, about the absolute authority they wielded. He cleared his throat viscidly. Well, this is absurd, he thought. What foolish imagination.

The policeman opened the door.

“Get out,” he said.

There was no light in the street or in any building. Mr. Ketchum swallowed. All he could really see was the black figure of the policeman.

“Is this the — station?” he asked.

“Turn out your lights and come on,” said the policeman.

Mr. Ketchum pushed in the chrome knob and got out. The policeman slammed the door. It made a loud, echoing noise; as if they were inside an unlighted warehouse instead of on a street. Mr. Ketchum glanced upward. The illusion was complete. There were neither stars nor moon. Sky and earth ran together blackly.

The policeman’s hard fingers clamped on his arm. Mr. Ketchum lost balance a moment, then caught himself and fell into a quick stride beside the tall figure of the policeman.

“Dark here,” he heard himself saying in a voice not entirely familiar.

The policeman said nothing. The other policeman fell into step on the other side of him. Mr. Ketchum told himself: These damned hicktown nazis were doing their best to intimidate him. Well, they wouldn’t succeed.

Mr. Ketchum sucked in a breath of the damp, sea-smelling air and let it shudder out. A crumby town of 67 and they have two policemen patrolling the streets at three in the morning. Ridiculous.

He almost tripped over the step when they reached it. The policeman on his left side caught him under the elbow.

“Thank you,” Mr. Ketchum muttered automatically. The policeman didn’t reply. Mr. Ketchum licked his lips. Cordial oaf, he thought and managed a fleeting smile to himself. There, that was better. No point in letting this get to him.

He blinked as the door was pulled open and, despite himself, felt a sigh of relief filtering through him. It was a police station all right. There was the podiumed desk, there a bulletin board, there a black, pot-bellied stove unlit, there a scarred bench against the wall, there a door, there the floor covered with a cracked and grimy linoleum that had once been green.

“Sit down and wait,” said the first policeman.

Mr. Ketchum looked at his lean, angled face, his swarthy skin. There was no division in his eyes between iris and pupil. It was all one darkness. He wore a dark uniform that fitted him loosely.

Mr. Ketchum didn’t get to see the other policeman because both of them went into the next room. He stood watching the closed door a moment. Should he leave, drive away? No, they’d have his address on the license. Then again, they might actually want him to attempt to leave. You never knew what sort of warped minds these small-town police had. They might even — shoot him down if he tried to leave.

Mr. Ketchum sat heavily on the bench. No, he was letting imagination run amuck. This was merely a small town on the Maine seacoast and they were merely going to fine him for—

Well, why didn’t they fine him then? What was all this play-acting? The heavy man pressed his lips together. Very well, let them play it the way they chose. This was better than driving anyway. He closed his eyes. I’ll just rest them, he thought.

After a few moments he opened them again. It was damned quiet. He looked around the dimly lit room. The walls were dirty and bare except for a clock and one picture that hung behind the desk. It was a painting — more likely a reproduction — of a bearded man. The hat he wore was a seaman’s hat. Probably one of Zachry’s ancient mariners. No; probably not even that. Probably a Sears Roebuck print: Bearded Seaman.

Mr. Ketchum grunted to himself. Why a police station should have such a print was beyond him. Except, of course, that Zachry was on the Atlantic. Probably its main source of income was from fishing. Anyway, what did it matter? Mr. Ketchum lowered his gaze.

In the next room he could hear the muffled voices of the two policemen. He tried to hear what they were saying but he couldn’t. He glared at the closed door. Come on, will you? he thought. He looked at the clock again. Three twenty-two. He checked it with his wrist watch. About right. The door opened and the two policemen came out.

One of them left. The remaining one — the one who had taken Mr. Ketchum’s license — went over to the raised desk and switched on the gooseneck lamp over it, drew a big ledger out of the top drawer and started writing in it. At last, thought Mr. Ketchum.

A minute passed.

“I—” Mr. Ketchum cleared his throat. “I beg your—”

His voice broke off as the cold gaze of the policeman raised from the ledger and fixed on him.

“Are you... That is, am I to be — fined now?”

The policeman looked back at the ledger. “Wait,” he said.

“But it’s past three in the mor—” Mr. Ketchum caught himself. He tried to look coldly belligerent. “Very well,” he said, curtly. “Would you kindly tell me how long it will be?”

The policeman kept writing in the ledger. Mr. Ketchum sat there stiffly, looking at him. Insufferable, he thought. This was the last damned time he’d ever go within a hundred miles of this damned New England.

The policeman looked up. “Married?” he asked.

Mr. Ketchum stared at him.

“Are you married?”

“No, I... it’s on the license,” Mr. Ketchum blurted. He felt a tremor of pleasure at his retort and, at the same time, an impaling of strange dread at talking back to the man.

“Family in Jersey?” asked the policeman.

“Yes. I mean no. Just a sister in Wiscons—”

Mr. Ketchum didn’t finish. He watched the policeman write it down. He wished he could rid himself of this queasy distress.

“Employed?” asked the policeman.

Mr. Ketchum swallowed. “Well,” he said, “I... I have no one particular em—”

“Unemployed,” said the policeman.

“Not at all; not at all,” said Mr. Ketchum stiffly. “I’m a... a free-lance salesman. I purchase stocks and lots from...” His voice faded as the policeman looked at him. Mr. Ketchum swallowed three times before the lump stayed down. He realized that he was sitting on the very edge of the bench as if poised to spring to the defense of his life. He forced himself to settle back. He drew in a deep breath. Relax, he told himself. Deliberately, he closed his eyes. There. He’d catch a few winks. May as well make the best of this, he thought.

The room was still except for the tinny, resonant ticking of the clock. Mr. Ketchum felt his heart pulsing with slow, dragging beats. He shifted his heavy frame uncomfortably on the hard bench. Ridiculous, he thought.

Mr. Ketchum opened his eyes and frowned. That damned picture. You could almost imagine that bearded seaman was looking at you.

Almost...

Because I have a beret, I feel that perhaps I should get a sports car — one my size, naturally. I could, of course, save myself all the trouble by getting rid of my beret. Getting rid of something — a perfectly good individual, in this case — is the primary problem of our little tale.

The Farringtons were a rather attractive family, if you don’t mind overlooking a few bad habits — such as committing murder. And it is probably not fair to speak of murder as being a habit with them. After all, they had only committed it twice.

However, they were well on the way to making it a habit. Even now they were planning to make the figure two into a three. But they were not looking sinister, or whispering to each other. They were discussing the subject frankly and openly as they sat in the parlor of East View, the summer home they had rented on the Massachusetts coast at a spot where the rather steep, rocky cliffs fell away to the brawling waves of the Atlantic.

They were even drinking tea as they talked. At least, Marion Farrington was — tea with lemon. Bert Farrington, her uncle, was also drinking tea, but his was laced with Jamaican rum. Dick, her younger brother, was drinking Scotch and soda, which looks like tea but isn’t.

“It’s really a pity the child must have her birthday in two weeks,” Marion Farrington said. “It forces us to act.”

Dick, who was thirty-two, well built, tanned and handsome, obviously accustomed to living well and spending money freely, glanced out the window. Jinny Wells was visible across the open field, just at the edge of the woods. She seemed, from a distance, almost the child that Marion had called her, although Jinny was almost twenty-one — a twenty-one that, based upon past performance charts of the Farrington family, she was not likely to reach. At the moment Jinny seemed to be searching the ground for small objects which she popped into a basket on her arm.

“She’s quite a pretty thing,” Dick commented. “And I do think she admires me.” He straightened his tie. “If we could only put it off for a little longer—”

“Ah ha!” Bert Farrington, who was plump and red-featured, twenty years older than his nephew, wagged a finger at him. “Mustn’t get sentimental, Dick. The future of the Family is at stake.” He said it that way, with a capital F, as if he were speaking of the British Empire or the State of Texas.

“Bert’s right.” Marion sat erect, a full-bodied forty-two, attractive if you overlooked the set of her chin and the determination that glinted in her pale blue eyes. “On Jinny’s twenty-first birthday we have to make an accounting of the estate, under the terms of Alice’s will. We might manage to postpone it for a few weeks, but eventually her lawyer would force the issue. You know what the result would be.”

Dick drained his glass in a nervous sort of way while he thought of all the money Alice had left him that was now gone, including half of what she had left Jinny. “Money certainly doesn’t go far these days,” he said.

“The inflation,” Bert said, in a philosophical manner. After all, if anyone went to jail it would be Dick, as trustee of Jinny’s estate, rather than Bert. Just the same, Bert, having sponged off his niece and nephew for fifteen years now, and hoping to continue to do so indefinitely, was willing to go to any reasonable lengths to help keep Dick out of jail. After all, Dick would soon have to find another rich wife to marry, and that was seldom accomplished in jail.

Dick refilled his Scotch and soda. “I could take her out for a sail in the bay and capsize.”

Bert frowned. “I think not,” he said. “After all, Alice went by drowning.”

“And Harry too, when we capsized fifteen years ago,” Marion said. “Three drownings would seem entirely too many to be coincidental.”

Harry had been Marion’s first, and only, husband. A wealthy apple grower in Oregon, whom she had married at a time when the family finances were at rock bottom, he had survived only seven weeks of matrimonial bliss. The waters in Puget Sound can also be quite tricky, and when the sailboat overturned Marion had been too concerned with helping her younger brother Dick (who was a splendid swimmer) to give her non-swimming husband a hand. Soon he was out of reach. He had been only forty feet away, but unhappily the forty feet had all been straight down.

Alice, Dick’s only wife — to date — had drowned only two years before, while swimming off a lonely beach at Acapulco, Mexico. Alice had been a dull, rather homely girl with a thin, curveless body, but she had been a splendid swimmer. When she met Dick — whose car had broken down in the small midwestern town where she lived and who had visited the local swimming pool to while away the time until it was fixed — she had been overwhelmed with wonder that he found her attractive. No other man ever had, though possibly some might have if they had known, as Dick did, that she had a half interest in a two hundred thousand dollar estate, left in trust for her and her sister Jinny by their father.

Dick had been hoping for a better figure, using both meanings of the word, but a balance in the bank has always been worth two on the wing. He had therefore seized the opportunity and eloped with her, and he and Bert and Marion had jointly taken her off to Mexico to honeymoon. Alice had exulted in long swims out into the blue Pacific. Sometimes, when Dick was weary, she had swum alone. From one of these lonely swims she had not returned.

Cramps, said the Mexican authorities when her body finally washed ashore. But it may have been the overpowering lethargy brought on by sedatives mixed with the black coffee she loved to drink before starting a swim.

Anyway, now her money was gone; Jinny was almost 21, and the share Alice had left her pretty sister, and which had been nibbled at, must be accounted for. The Farringtons, if a little provoked at Fate for forcing another murder upon them, were nevertheless facing up to their burden.

“It must be clearly an accident,” Marion said.

“Don’t give any gossip a chance to get started,” Bert agreed.

“Perhaps a picnic out by the old Cliff Point House,” Dick suggested. “It’s a long drop to the rocks.”

“If we can’t think of anything better,” Marion said. “But shhh — she’s coming back now.”

They watched the slender girl come across the field, the basket on her arm. Halfway to the house, she waved to a small man in a large checked cap, who rode by on a bicycle. The small man was Mr. Downey, who had rented the next house for the summer. Mr. Downey was a bookish man whose hobby was geology, and who rode hither and yon on his bicycle, chipping bits off rocks.

“Speaking of sleeping,” Bert murmured, “do you suppose the girl is psychic?”

“What do you mean?” Marion asked.

“These nightmares she’s been having the last two weeks since she came here to visit us. Every other night. Nightmares about big, dark figures closing in on her, whispering things she can’t make out.” He coughed slightly. “What I mean is do you suppose she—”

“Of course the girl’s not psychic,” Marion said. “She’s just undernourished and nervous, like so many modern girls. Also, she studied too hard at school. Imagine a chit like her, not yet twenty-one, graduating from college. However, no matter what’s causing her nightmares, I’m glad of them. The whole town knows about them, and Dr. Barnes can testify her nerves aren’t strong — that’s why I insisted she go see him. So no matter what happens—”

She broke off as the front door opened. A moment later Jinny Wells entered the room.

Jinny was a slender girl, small-boned, with a delicate, wistful oval face and a slow, soft-voiced manner of speaking. Her cheeks were pink now with heat and exertion, her dark eyes dancing.

“Oh, I found some!” she cried. “Found some mushrooms. Look!”

Her eyes, wide and admiring, smiled at Dick, who smiled back. She handed the basket to Marion, who glanced into it.

“Why, child—” Marion began, then recovered herself smoothly. “You’ve done well,” she said. “You shall have them for supper. Take them out to the kitchen; I’ll fix them myself.”

“Oh, thank you, Marion,” Jinny said. “But we’ll all have them.” She turned to go, and her lashes fluttered as she peeped at Dick beneath them. Then she went lightly out with her basket of mushrooms.

“Well, that takes care of that,” Marion said when Jinny had gone. “She’s mixed in some of the most deadly kind of mushrooms with edible ones that look a lot like it. What is the name of that mushroom, that terribly poisonous one? No matter, there’s quite enough to kill her. And she picked them herself and showed them to Mr. Downey, next door. We’ll be in the clear — quite in the clear.”

At last, Marion thought, her education was coming to some use. Which might still not be the case, if it weren’t for that course she’d taken in botany.

I, if memory serves me right, have never purchased a bridge from anyone. But then I have never felt that possessing a bridge is essential to the good life. And now let me present Mr. Holland and his confrère Arch, who might conceivably try to sell you something of consequence, like the Mississippi River, its bridges and tributaries.

Well, we were riding this boat from Liverpool when Arch, my old buddy with whom I grew up together on the sidewalks of New York, brought up the matter of O. Henry.

“The trouble with you,” Arch said to me, “is you’re not up on your reading. You think all suckers have to come from some place else. Fifty years ago O. Henry knew better.”

“Quote me some O. Henry,” I said.

“Quote,” Arch said. “ ‘In the west a sucker is born every minute; but in New York they appear in chunks of roe. They lie down on the floor and scream and kick when you are the least bit slow about taking money from them.’ ”

“That was fifty years ago,” I said.

“Exactly,” Arch said. “People like you forget that the old ways were frequently the best ways. I think we should bear this in mind this trip. Instead of prowling the main salon for little old ladies from Nebraska and Toledo, I suggest we hunt up a live New Yorker.”

“New Yorkers are up on all the latest things,” I said. “I personally cannot imagine selling uranium stock to a fellow New Yorker, or offering our popular air-coach funeral service. Can you?”

“No,” Arch said, “but I think maybe we ought to try some of the older techniques. As I said to you only recently, the old ways are frequently the best ways. I got to thinking about this because of that uncle of yours who used to conduct that small but well-attended game of three-card monte on top of an unfolded newspaper on the subway platform at Seventh Avenue and Fourteenth Street.”

“You mean my uncle Herbert Holland,” I said. “I always thought his technique a little crude. He thought he could escape the police merely by switching from the uptown to the downtown sides of the subway.

“It was his name I was thinking about, not his technique,” Arch said. “For the remainder of this voyage, I suggest that you adopt your uncle’s name. You will be Mr. Holland. Tonight we are going to have a small game of cards with a gentleman I met on this boat. He is Worthington T. Jones, chairman of the board of several New York banks, and he seems friendly. The idea is to let Mr. Jones win some money at cards and remember at all tunes that your name is Holland. Leave the rest to me.”

Not so long ago a relative asked me if I’d like to go hunting with him. I was about to say yes when a line in this story, which fortuitously I was reading at the moment, leaped out at me: “... there’s no thrill like shooting your own.”

She had a kind of sad face. The gray eyes were set wide apart and they had a way of taking on a gaze as though she were thinking of something far away and forever lost. Her high cheekbones gave her the hollow look of pining away and the long, rose-colored lips were almost always grave. She seldom smiled. Still she was beautiful, beautiful in a haunting, unforgettable way. I know.

She was not tall or short for a woman, and she was slim, very slim. You could see the fine bone structure beneath the skin when she closed her hands. She was like a piece of delicate china. Even her voice had a fragile quality, like the last echo of some forgotten whisper.

Every time he took her in his arms, it seemed as if he would crush the breath, maybe even the life, out of her for he was a big brute of a man; but I suppose he could be gentle because she seemed to like it. These were the few times that something like a smile would touch her lips and she’d hug him in return and then kiss him. I always tried not to watch, but no matter how quickly I averted my eyes the picture was there, sharp and lasting.

She had seen us coming and had stepped outside and was standing there, bare-headed, in the snow. She waved and that was enough to send him on ahead with long, fast strides. I hung back looking out over the hard rippling blue of the lake which was still unfrozen after this first light snowfall of November.

I heard them murmur things to each other, sweet, tender things, I imagine, and I tried to pay no attention to them.

What’s eating you, Ludlow? I asked myself. Why let it get you like this? There’s been nothing, not even a hint of it, between you and her. She scarcely knows you’re alive. Besides, she’s married, and he’s a good joe.

I circled around them and heard her say, “Please, Elroy,” and sensed her pushing away from his embrace, then I was on the steps, which she had swept clean, stamping snow from my boots. I looked to the south and west, seeing the expanse of leaden sky and the endless stretch of the evergreens for this was what we call big country up here, miles and miles of wilderness.

Endicott said: “Aren’t you coming in, Ludlow?”

I shut the door behind me. Endicott had shed his red hunting jacket and she took it from him and hung it on the rack. His big chest swelled as he inhaled deeply.

“That coffee sure smells good, Rosemary,” he said. “Get the whiskey, won’t you, hon? I feel like a good stiff slug of it.”

I stepped into the room where I bunked and unloaded my rifle and stood it in a corner. I dropped my jacket and cap on the bed and then sat down on the edge. I don’t know how long I sat there like that with my hands clasped between my thighs, staring at the floor.

Endicott’s voice brought me out of it. “Coffee, Ludlow?” he called from the next room.

“I’ll be right there,” I said.

He had a cup half full and the whiskey bottle in his hand. “Hold it,” I told him. “I’ll take mine plain.”

His brows went up. “I’ve seen you drink coffee royals before. How come?”

“I don’t feel like it today.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

I could feel her watching me, like she often did, but I pretended to be unaware of it. She went on staring, however, and finally she said, “No luck today either, Sam?”

I shook my head.

“I don’t know whether to be sorry or glad,” she said. “Those poor little deer aren’t hurting anybody. Why must you men be so brutal? Why must you slaughter them?”

“Don’t mind her, Ludlow,” Endicott said. “Never known anyone as soft-hearted. She’ll walk around a bug on the ground rather than step on it.” His laugh boomed in the room. “You’ve got to get more spunk, hon.”

“It isn’t that, Elroy,” she said. “You know it. I just can’t stand the thought of anything being killed.”

Endicott’s laugh boomed again. “You’ll get over it. Just come out with me and watch me knock one over. That’ll cure you.”

She shuddered. “You know I couldn’t stand that, Elroy. I’d be sick for a week, I hope you don’t even get a shot at one.”

He was a big man and, I suppose, like a lot of big men he was attracted to women who were small or seemingly helpless. If that was all there was to it then I guess they were a perfect match. But he was much older than her, fifteen or twenty years older, I’d say.

There you go again, Ludlow, I told myself, getting mad. What business is it of yours their difference in age? Just because she looks at you sometimes— He’s crazy in love with her. Can’t you tell?

He had asked her to get chow ready but he did most of the cooking. “My only chance, Ludlow,” he said, winking and grinning. “At home she won’t even let me in the kitchen.”

After we’d eaten he washed the dishes while she wiped. I went to my room. I lay down on my blankets with a magazine but I couldn’t read. I could hear them talking, low and soft, and his pleased chuckles and once the sound of scuffling followed by her tone of reproach and his light laugh. I lay there, pretending not to hear, remembering how I’d got into this.

When he’d offered me an even hundred bucks rent plus my wages as a guide during the nine-day deer season I’d marked him for what he obviously was, a rich guy from the southern part of the state who owned a construction business down there or was it a small factory? I never bothered to make sure. He paid the rent in advance and that was enough for me. When he said his wife would be along I said okay because I figured it would be someone middle-aged like him and probably built like a tank, but then it turned out to be her.

I had put the magazine aside and was lying there staring, just staring, at the ceiling when she looked and then came in.

“Am I bothering you?” she said in that small, almost timid voice.

“Not at all,” I said. I swung my legs over the side of the bunk and sat on the edge.

She stared at my carbine and my rifle, both of which were leaning against a corner. She pointed a long, slim finger. “How come you’ve got two guns?” she asked.

I cursed the quickened beating of my heart. She’s just bored, I told myself, she’s just tired of being alone during the day while you and Endicott hunt. She’s probably used to shows and night clubs. She’s not used to being cooped up way out in the wilderness miles away from any doings.

I tried to be flippant about it. “I’m a two-gun man,” I said, “like in the western movies. One for each hand.”

She glanced at me sharply and showed me that shadowy smile. “You’re making fun of me,” she said, reproachfully. “I’m really serious. Is there any difference between the two?”

I went over and picked one up. “One’s a rifle,” I told her. “This is a carbine. It’s a little shorter and lighter and so it’s easier to carry around in the woods all day. I prefer the rifle, though. There’s no difference in caliber. They’re both .30-.30s.”

“Would you show me how it works?”

I stared at her.

For a moment a little color showed under the becoming pallor of her features. “I... I’d really like to know. Because of Elroy. He likes so much to hunt and I... I’d like to be a part of that. I like sharing things with him. But he won’t take me seriously. He makes fun of me when I ask him certain things and that gets me rattled. Would you show me how that gun works?”

I went on staring at her. Her glance started to shift but then she brought those gray eyes back and the moist appeal in them decided me.

“When the hammer’s back slightly like this it’s on safety,” I said. “When you want to shoot you cock it with your thumb like this. Then you squeeze the trigger. To eject the empty shell and get a fresh one in the breech you work the lever like this. Then you squeeze the trigger again or if you aren’t shooting any more you let the hammer down like this and set it back on safety. See?”

She nodded.

“Here,” I said. “Take it and try. It’s unloaded.”

Her eyes went wide as if I had thrust a poisonous snake at her. “Oh, no, Sam. I can’t make myself touch one.”

“Then how are you going to learn to shoot?”

“Give me time. Will you do that? When I’m alone tomorrow I’ll try. You’ll leave it unloaded, won’t you? I’ll try when I’m alone so no one will make fun of me. I know it’s silly to be like this but that’s the way I am. I so much want to learn to shoot a gun — for Elroy. You’ll teach me, won’t you?”

I knew a moment of a strange, new loneliness and a hopeless yearning. “Okay, Mrs. Endicott,” I said. “I’ll teach you.”

The deer came out of the thicket and stood still a moment. I caught him in the sights and then I hesitated, thinking, if he’ll go over that rise he’ll be set up just right for Endicott. After all, that’s what he’s paying me for. I could drop it for him but there’s no thrill like shooting your own.

The deer was a big buck with a large rack of antlers but he was far enough away so that I couldn’t count the points. Probably as tough eating as an old inner tube, but he’d make a fine trophy. I tightened my finger around the trigger. If he wasn’t going to move soon I’d shoot.

Just then the buck stirred and started up the slope. He moved without hurry, ambling up the hill. A moment he was silhouetted against the gray sky. Then he was gone.

I waited. The shot cracked out loud and sharp in all that stillness. The echoes rolled past me and beyond me, far into the evergreens and into silence. Then came another shot and on the heels of that a third one. These echoes, too, rolled and faded and died.

A strange reluctance gripped me as I started up the slope. I could not understand it. All I knew was that it unnerved me. Was it the temper of the day, the low, dismal clouds, the first hush of winter like the deep, eternal silence of the tomb? Then her image crossed my memory and I knew what it was.

I stopped on the crest of the hill. He was there below, sitting on a stump with his back to me. I stood there and watched. And I felt it begin in me, mildly at first, just swirling around in the dark depths of me and I didn’t know what it was, then something nurtured it and it grew and I felt it rise overwhelmingly in me and at the last moment I caught myself and forced it back to whatever depths had spawned it. I lowered the rifle from my shoulder, aware that I was trembling all over.

When I had myself in hand again I went down to him. He heard me coming and he rose to his feet and picked up his rifle. His face wore a disgusted look.

“Missed him,” he said bitterly. “Three shots and every one a miss. I suppose you heard?”

I said nothing.

“He came over that rise,” Endicott went on, “walking slow and easy. I couldn’t have asked for a better target. But I missed and he really took off. I tried two more on the run but what can you expect when I can’t even hit a walking target?” He peered at me. “You listening, Ludlow?”

I hauled myself out of it, out of the black thoughts and the fear, the numbing fear of the great and dark evil that I had never known existed m me until a few minutes ago.

“I heard you shoot,” I said woodenly. “Tough. But you’ll get another chance. Better luck then.”

He was still peering at me. “You don’t look so good.”

I stared off at the green ring the balsams and spruces and hemlocks made around this clearing. “I’m all right.”

“You look all in,” he said. “I’m pretty well bushed myself. How about calling it a day?”

I didn’t like the thought of going back to the cottage and seeing her move around and hearing her voice and feeling her eyes on me every now and then. I didn’t like that at all but there was no way to run from it.

So I said, “Okay, Endicott. Let’s start back...”

That evening I didn’t even try to read. I lay on my blankets with my hands under my head and my eyes closed and straining everything in me to keep from remembering the incident of that day and trying not to pay attention to their voices beyond the curtain.

They were playing cribbage and she squealed delightedly every time she won and he grumbled but you could tell it was good-natured grousing and that he was really glad she had won. Maybe he had even let her win. There wasn’t a thing he wouldn’t do for her.

I didn’t hear her come in. My eyes were closed and it was the fragrance first of all, and then an awareness of her and I opened my eyes and there she was, staring at me with that grave, faintly wistful look in her eyes, the lamplight turning the ends of her dark hair to golden brown.

Endicott was moving about in the next room and the radio began to blare, loudly, and though I’ve always hated loud radios somehow I liked it loud right then.

“Aren’t you feeling well, Sam?” she asked, and I thought there was something special in her voice for me, something like concern, but then I told myself it was just my imagination.

I sat up on the edge of the bed. “I’m all right.”

“You hardly ate anything tonight.”

“I wasn’t very hungry.”

“Could I make something for you?”

“I’m all right. You needn’t bother.”

“I’d like to fix you something.”

To change the subject I said, “How about the carbine? Did you try it today? It would be just right for you, a light gun like that.”

She shuddered. “I tried. I tried real hard, Sam. I actually picked it up once but that’s all. I put it down right away. Guns make my skin crawl. They always have. I don’t think I could ever force myself to shoot one.”

“There’s really nothing to it,” I said. “I don’t know why you should be so afraid.”

“But I am,” she said, and shuddered again and hugged herself with her arms. Her eyes widened and stared off into that secret, sad somewhere that only she could see. “Call it a phobia. Maybe something that happened when I was a child and which I can’t remember.” She uttered a small, nervous laugh, her lips twitching stiffly. “Maybe I should go see a psychiatrist. Are you sure you don’t want me to fix you something?”

“I’m very sure. Thanks anyway.”

“Well, good night, Sam.”

“Good night, Mrs. Endicott...”

Life in the suburbs, from all reports, is one gay round after another. Week ends are sunny. Commuting is a conversation piece. And among the premiums offered for a book or two of green stamps is tranquillity.

I’m not sure when it was, exactly, that I knew I must murder Janice. Oh, I’d been thinking of it, wistfully, for months, but I don’t know precisely at what moment my idle daydreams metamorphosed into a cold and determined plan.

Perhaps it was the day the mailman brought the bill for Janice’s mink coat, a coat I had not even heard of until then. And when I asked her if I could at least see this coat for which I was expected to pay almost two thousand dollars, a fifth of a year’s wages, she informed me, off-handedly, that she had lost the dear thing on the train, coming home from the city after an exhausting and nerve-racking day spent shopping along Fifth Avenue.

Or perhaps it was before that, the evening I returned to our midtown apartment, wearied from my labors in the advertising vineyard, and learned that in my absence Janice had managed to buy a house in Connecticut. No more were we to be pallid cliff-dwellers in Manhattan. The invigorating air of the ranch style developments for us. It would be good for my health, too, for me to arise an hour earlier each morning and sprint for the train.

Or perhaps it was that evening, out in our little bit of suburbia, when I was poring over our household financial records and discovered that, in the last six months, we had spent more in bank-fines resulting from overdrawn checks than we had spent on food. Janice’s rejoinder, when calmly I shrieked this news at er, was that it was obviously my fault, since I didn’t put enough money into the bank to cover the money she wanted to take back out.

Or perhaps it wasn’t even Janice at all. Perhaps the catalyst was Karen.

Karen, ah Karen! I had finally received the promotion which made it at least possible for me to feel optimistic about catching up with Janice’s spending, and with the promotion had come my own office and my own secretary, and Karen was that secretary.

It was the old story. At home, a wife who was a constant source of frustration and annoyance. At the office, a charming and intelligent — not to say lovely — secretary, with whom I felt I could talk, with whom I could relax. I took to spending evenings in town, telling Janice I was working late at the office, and the inevitable happened. Karen and I were in love.

But ours could not be a dark and furtive office romance. Karen was too honest, too gentle, too good for such a relationship. I knew I had to free myself of Janice and marry Karen. And I knew that, if I were free, Karen would have me.

I considered divorce. I had no doubt that Janice would grant me one, since divorce is quite fashionable in our circle, and Janice wished always to be in fashion. But then I remembered alimony. In any divorce action, I would be the plaintiff, and Janice the defendant. And that meant alimony. And I knew only too well Janice’s insatiable need for money. It was impossible as it was for me to support both Janice and myself. Add Karen, and I would be in debtor’s prison within six months.

No, divorce was out, and for a while the spot I was in seemed hopeless. Then Janice bought one of those little foreign cars, and I waited hopefully for her to demolish both the auto and herself on the Merritt Parkway, but nothing ever came of it. Those cars are mawkishly ugly, but they are also exasperatingly safe.

Our home was brick outside, plaster and linoleum and plastic inside. Not much likelihood of a good flash fire. The commuter trains had their derailments and so on from time to time, but the accidents were almost invariably minor and never on Ladies’ Day.

Finally, I had to admit to myself that it was up to me. If Janice were to make way for Karen’s and my happiness, it would have to be at my instigation.

This conviction grew in me, becoming stronger and stronger until at last I dared broach the subject to Karen. She was, at first, shocked and appalled at my suggestion. But I talked to her, reasoning with her, explaining why it would never be possible for us to wed while Janice still lived, and slowly she too accepted the inevitability of it.

Once decided, the only questions left to answer were when and how. I had four types of murder from which to choose: murder made to look like an accident, murder made to look like suicide, murder made to look like natural death, and murder made to look like murder.

I ruled out accident at once. I had daydreamed for months of possible accidents for Janice, and had finally come to realize that they were all unlikely. If they were unlikely to me, who passionately desired that Janice should have an accident, how much more unlikely would they surely be to the police?

As for suicide, there were far too many of Janice’s suburban friends who would be delighted to volunteer the information that Janice was happy as a lark — and about as bright — and that she had absolutely no reason in the world to want to kill herself.

As for natural causes, I knew far too little about medicine to want to try to outwit a coroner at his own game.

Which left murder. Murder made to look like murder. And I planned accordingly.

My opportunity came on a Wednesday late in May. On the Thursday and Friday of that week, there was to be an important meeting in Chicago, concerning a new ad campaign for one of our most important accounts, and I was scheduled to attend. All I had to do was arrange for Karen to accompany me, an easy matter to justify, and then my plan went into action.

Here was the plan: I had two tickets on the three p.m. train Wednesday for Chicago, due to arrive in that city at eight-forty the following morning. Karen was to take this train, carrying both tickets. We would leave the ad agency together at noon, ostensibly headed for Grand Central, lunch and the train. But while Karen went to Grand Central, I would hurry uptown, to the 125th Street station, where there was a twelve fifty-five train for my portion of Connecticut. I would arrive at my station at two-ten, wearing false mustache, horn-rimmed glasses, and the kind of hat and topcoat I never wear. Our mortgaged paradise was a good twenty blocks from the station. I would walk this distance, shoot Janice with the .32 revolver I had picked up second-hand on the lower East Side two weeks before, ransack the house, take the five-oh-two back to the city, go to a movie, take the twelve forty-five plane for Chicago, arriving at three-forty a.m., and be at the railroad station when Karen’s train arrived at eight-forty. We would immediately turn in our return trip tickets, claiming we had decided to go back to New York by plane. This would necessitate my filling out and signing a railroad company form. It was foolproof. And, after a decent period of mourning, I would marry Karen and live happily and solvently ever after.

The day arrived. I told Janice I would see her on the following Monday, and I brought my suitcase with me to the office. Karen and I left at twelve, and I headed immediately uptown, stopping off only to buy a hat and topcoat. I checked my suitcase in a locker at the 125th Street station, and in the men’s room on the train, donned the horn-rimmed glasses and the mustache.

At two-fifteen, I was stepping from the train at my station, which was virtually deserted at this time of day. I saw no one I knew in the twenty block walk to the house. I let myself in the front door with my key, the pistol an unaccustomed weight in my pocket.

Janice was seated in the living room, on the unpaid for new sofa, reading a slick women’s magazine and being instructed, no doubt, in some new way to spend my hard-earned money.

At first, she didn’t recognize me. Then I removed the hat and glasses, and she exclaimed, “Why, Freddie! I thought you were going to Chicago!”

“And so I am,” I told her. I redonned hat and mustache, and moved forward to close the picture window drapes.

She said, “Whatever are you doing with that mustache? You look terrible with a mustache.”

I turned to face her and withdrew the pistol from my pocket. “Walk out to the kitchen, Janice,” I said. I planned to make it look as though the burglar had come in the back way, Janice had heard him and gone to investigate, and he had shot her.

She blinked at the gun, then stared wide-eyed at my face. “Freddie, what on earth—”

“Walk out to the kitchen, Janice,” I repeated.

“Freddie,” she said petulantly, “if this is your idea of a joke—”

“I’m not joking, Janice,” I said fiercely.

All at once, her eyes lit up, and she clapped her hands together childishly, as she always did when charging something we couldn’t afford. “You old dear!” she cried.

“You did buy me that new washer-dryer after all!” And she leaped to her feet and virtually ran out to the kitchen, her high heels going clack-clack on the linoleum. Even then, in the last moments of her life, all she could think of was that she was going to add yet another possession to the mound of goodies she had already bled from me.

I followed her to the kitchen, where she turned, puzzled, to say, “There isn’t any washer-dryer—”

I shot from the hip. Naturally, I missed, and the bullet perforated a dirty pot on the stove. I abandoned cowboy style forthwith, aimed more carefully, and the second shot cut her down in mid-scream.

Three seconds of silence. And they were followed by the sudden brrrinnnng of the front doorbell, the clapper of which was on the kitchen wall three feet from my head.

I froze, not knowing what to do. My first thought was to stay frozen and wait for whoever it was to go away. But then I remembered the little foreign car, sitting in the driveway, advertising Janice’s presence at home. If there were no answer, the visitor might get alarmed, might call for help from the neighbors or the police, and I would never manage to get away on foot.

So I had to go to the door. With the horn-rimmed glasses and the mustache, and a voice disguised by making it hoarser and deeper than usual, I should be able to avoid recognition. I would say I was the family doctor, that Janice was sick in bed and could see no one.

The bell rang again while I was still thinking this through, and the second ringing unfroze me. Putting the gun back in my pocket, I hurried through the living room and stopped at the front door. I took a deep breath, steeled myself, and eased the door open an inch. Peering through this opening, I saw what was obviously a door-to-door salesman. He carried a tan briefcase. He wore a slender gray suit, a white shirt, a blue tie and a smile containing sixty-four gleaming teeth. He said, “Good afternoon, sir. Is the lady of the house at home?”

“She’s sick,” I said remembering to be hoarse.

“Well, sir,” he bubbled, “perhaps I could talk to you for just a moment or two, if you have the time.”

“Not interested,” I told him. “Sorry.”

“Oh, but I’m sure you will be interested, sir. My company has something of interest to every parent—”

“I am not a parent.”

“Oh.” His smile faltered, but came back with redoubled fury. “But my company isn’t of interest only to parents, of course. Briefly, I represent the Encyclopedia Universicana, and I’m not actually a salesman. We are making a preliminary campaign in this area—”

“I’m sorry,” I said firmly. “I’m not interested.”

“But you haven’t heard the best part,” he said urgently.

“No,” I said, and I slammed the door, reflecting that Janice would have bought the Encyclopedia Universicana, and that I had dispatched her just in time.

But I had to get on with the plan. I would now ransack the house, emptying bureau drawers onto the floor, hurling clothing around in closets and so forth. Then, when it was time, I would leave for my train.

I turned toward the bedrooms, and the phone rang.

Once again, I froze. To answer, or not to answer? Once again, as with the doorbell, and for much the same reasons, I decided to answer, and to be, again, the family doctor.

I picked up the phone therefore, said hello, and a falsely hearty woman’s voice chirped, “Magill Communications Survey calling. Is your television set on, sir?”

I stood there, with the phone to my ear.

“Sir?”

“No,” I said, and I hung up.

Doggedly, I turned again toward the bedrooms. And this time, I got there. Opening a bureau drawer, I tossed its entire contents on the floor. I didn’t have to worry about fingerprints. My fingerprints were quite naturally all over everything anyway. The police would simply assume that the burglar, being a professional, had known enough to wear gloves.

I was working on the third drawer, having pocketed three pairs of earrings and an old watch, for realism’s sake, when the doorbell rang.

I sighed, plodded wearily to the living room, and opened the door perhaps an inch.

A short stout woman, smiling like an idiot, said “Hel-lo, there! I’m Mrs. Turner from over on Marigold Lane, and I’m selling chances for our new car raffle at the United Protestant Church.”

“I don’t want any raffles,” I said.

“New car raffle,” she said.

“I don’t want any cars,” I said. I closed the door. Then I quickly opened it again. “I have a car,” I said. And I closed the door again.

On the way back to the bedroom, the echo of that conversation returned to me. I hadn’t been very coherent. Could it be that I was more nervous than I thought?

No matter. In little more than an hour, I would leave here and catch my train for New York.

I lit two cigarettes, stubbed one out in annoyance, and went back to work. I finished the bureau and the one drawer in the vanity table, and was about to start with the closet when the phone rang.

I had never before realized just how shrill, just how grating, that telephone bell actually was. And how long each ring was. And what a little space of time there was between rings. Why, it rang three times before I even took a step, and it managed to get in one more jarring ring for good measure as I was on my way down the hall to the living room.

I picked up the phone and a male voice said in my ear, “Hello, Andy?”

“Andy?”

He said it again, “Hello, Andy?”

Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. I said, “Who?”

He said, “Andy.”

“Wrong number,” I said and hung up.

The doorbell clanged.

I jumped, knocking the phone off its stand onto the floor. I scooped it up, fumbling, and the doorbell sounded again.

I raced across the room and, forgetting caution, hurled the door open wide.

The man outside the door was gray-haired, portly and quite dignified. He wore a conservative suit and carried a black briefcase. He smiled upon me and said, “Has Mister Wheet been by yet?”

“Who?”

“Mister Wheet,” he said. “Hasn’t he been here?”

“No one by that name here,” I said. “Wrong number.”

“Well, then,” said the portly man, “I suppose I’ll just have to talk to you myself.” And, before I knew what was going on, he had slipped past me and was standing in the living room, looking around with a great show of admiration and saying, “Lovely. A really lovely living room.”

“Now, see here—” I began.

“Sampson,” said the portly man, extending a firm plump hand. “Encyclopedia Universicana. Little woman at home?”

“I’m afraid she’s sick,” I said. “I was just fixing some broth for her. Chicken — broth. Perhaps some other—”

“I see,” said the portly man. He frowned as though thinking things over, and then smiled and said, “Well, sir, you go right ahead. That’ll give me a chance to get the presentation set up.”

And all at once he was sitting on the sofa. I opened my mouth, but he opened the briefcase faster, dove in, and emerged with a double handful of paper. Sheets and sheets of paper, all standard typewriter size, all gaily-colored in red and green and blue, prominently featuring photographs of receding rows of books. SAVE! roared some of the sheets of paper, in black block print. FREE! screamed others, in red. TRIAL OFFER! shrieked still more, in rainbow hues.

Portly Mister Sampson leaned far forward, puffing a bit, and began to arrange his papers in rows upon the rug, just in front of his pointed-toe, highly polished black shoes. “Our program,” he explained to me, smiling, and lowered his head to distribute more sheets of paper over the floor.

I stared at him. Not five feet from where he was sitting, my late wife Janice lay sprawled upon the kitchen floor. In the bedroom, chaos was the order of the day. In just about an hour, I would leave here and catch the train back to the city. I would leave the .32 in a litter basket, knowing full well some enterprising soul would shortly pick it out again and that by the time the police got hold of it, if they ever did, it would have committed any number of crimes past this current one. And then I would fly to Chicago and see Karen. Lovely Karen. Dear, darling Karen.

And this miserable man was trying to sell me encyclopedias!

I opened my mouth. Quite calmly, I said, “Get out.”

He looked up at me, smiling. “Eh?”

“Get out,” I said.

The smile flickered, “But — you haven’t seen—”

“Get out!” I said, this time a bit louder. I pointed at the door, upsetting a table lamp. “Get out! Just... just... just get out!”

The miserable creature began to splutter. “Well, but... see here—”

“GET OUT!!”

I dashed forward and grabbed all his papers, crumpling them this way and that, gathering them in pay arms, and bore them to the front door. In turning the knob, I dropped half of them. The remaining half I hurled outward, and they fluttered to the lawn. I kicked at those remaining, and turned to glare at Mister Sampson as he scuttled from the house, wanting to bluster but a bit too afraid of me to say anything.

I slammed the door after him and took a deep breath, forcing myself to be calm. I lit a cigarette. I lit another cigarette. Irritably, I stubbed the first one in a handy ash tray, and lit a third. “Tcha!” I cried, and mashed them all out, and stormed back to the bedroom, where I tore into the closet with genuine pleasure. Once the closet was a hopeless wreck, I ripped the covers from the bed and dumped the mattress on the floor. Then I surveyed my handiwork.

And the doorbell rang.

“If that is Mister Sampson,” I muttered to myself, “by Heaven I’ll—”

It rang again. We had an incredibly loud doorbell in that house. Odd I’d never noticed it before.

It rang again as I was on my way to answer, and I almost shouted at it to shut up. But I managed to bring myself under control by the time I reached the door, and to remember to open it not more than an inch.

A tiny girl in a green uniform stood looking up at me; she was bearing a box of cookies.

Life, I reflected at that moment, is unkind and cruel. I said, “We already bought some, little girl,” and I softly closed the door.

And the telephone screamed.

I leaned against the door and let my nerves do whatever they wanted. But I knew I couldn’t stay there. The telephone would only make that noise again. And again and again and again, until finally I gave up and answered it. The thing to do, I told myself calmly, was to answer it now. Then it couldn’t make that noise any more.

A good plan. I was full of good plans. I went over and picked up the phone.

“Hiya, neighbor I” shouted a male voice. “This is Dan O’Toole, of WDEW. Can you Top That Mop?”

“What?”

“This is the grand new radio game everybody’s talking about, neighbor. If you can Top That—”

I suppose he kept on talking. I don’t know. I hung up.

I caught myself about to light a cigarette, and made myself stop. I also forced myself to be calm, think rationally, consider the circumstances. The house, except for my own ragged breathing, was silent.

With waning fervor, I studied once more the tableau I was leaving for the police. The dead woman in the kitchen, the ransacked house. All that remained was to fix the back door to make it look as though the burglar had forced his way in.

It seemed as though my plan should work perfectly well. It really seemed that way.

Slowly, I trudged out to the kitchen. For some reason, I suddenly no longer believed in my plan. All of life was involved in a great conspiracy against me. And it occurred to me that I hadn’t known until today what Janice’s existence at home had been like, and that her reckless spending might simply have been a form of escape.

At the back door, I paused, listening for doorbells and phone bells and church bells and jingle bells, but there was only silence. So I opened the door, and a short round woman was standing there, our next-door neighbor, wearing dress and apron and holding an empty cup.

I stared at her. She looked at me with puzzled surprise, and then her gaze moved beyond me and came to rest on something behind me, at floor level. Her eyes widened. Then she screamed and let go of the cup and went dashing away.

With the scream, I went rigid. I stared at the cup. It seemed to hang there in mid-air for the longest while, and then, very slowly at first, it started to fall. It fell faster and faster and finally splattered with a terrible crash on the patio cement.

And when the cup splattered, so did I. I went all limp and sat down with a bump on the kitchen floor.

And there I sat, waiting. I sat waiting, waiting for the census taker and the mailman with a Special Delivery letter, for the laundry man and the Railway Express driver, for the man from the cleaners, a horde of Boy Scouts on a paper drive, a political candidate, five wrong numbers, the paper boy, the police, a lady collecting for a worthy charity, the milkman, a call from the tax assessor’s office, a young man working his way through college selling magazines...

With a degree of bitterness, a lawyer has been defined as one who can make black appear white or white appear black. Our detestable, forensic hero is singular only in that he proved a red traffic light green.

It was murder, although slaughter was a better term for it — or even assassination. Naomi Shawn settled on murder because it was a word that felt strangely at home in her mind. The crime, by any name, was happening to a bewildered citizen, one Henry Babcock, whose place of execution was the witness stand in Judge Dutton’s court. Henry Babcock was in a somewhat similar circumstance to the late Agnes Thompson, housewife, who had been struck down by a Mercedes-Benz and subsequently buried. Henry was being buried, too; but he had the uncomfortable disadvantage of not being dead.

From her seat among the courtroom spectators, Naomi watched the scene with fascinated eyes. Arnold Shawn was a man of electrifying virility, persuasive charm, and intellectual dexterity. He was a dramatist, a strategist, a psychologist, and could, if need be, display the touch of the poet. He was more handsome at fifty than he’d been at twenty-five, more confident, more successful, more feared and much more hated. He was a lawyer who selected his clients with scrupulous care, basing his decision solely on ability to pay. But once a retainer was given, the accused could sit back with whatever ease an accused can muster and know that his fate was in the hands of as shrewd a legal talent as money could buy.

And the biggest heel.

Naomi Shawn’s vocabulary wasn’t as extensive as her husband’s. He would have found a more distinctive way of describing his own character. In fact, he had done that very thing only a few hours earlier.

“I’m not cruel, Naomi; I’m honest. I could lie to you. It would be easy, easier than you know, my dear. I could prove to you, beyond your innermost feminine doubt, mat I am an innocent, loyal, devoted husband who is passionately in love with you, and everything you think you’ve learned to the contrary is pure illusion. But I won’t lie. There is another woman.”

Naomi tried not to listen to echoes. Arnold was speaking, and Arnold commanded attention when he spoke.

“Now, Mr. Babcock,” he was saying, “you have testified that you saw my client’s automobile run a red light, strike the deceased, Agnes Thompson, drive on for a space of some fifty yards, stop, back up to a spot parallel with the body, and then drive on again without my client, Mr. Jerome, so much as alighting from the vehicle...”

Mr. Jerome. He was nineteen. A slight nineteen, with an almost childlike face and guilty blue eyes that stared disconsolately at his uncalloused hands laced together on the table before him. His blond hair was combed back neatly, and he wore a conservative tie, white shirt and dark suit, as per Arnold’s instructions. Kenneth Jerome looked more like an honor Bible student than a cold-blooded hit and run killer. And he was that; Naomi was the one spectator in the courtroom who knew. She had gone to Arnold’s office one morning. He hadn’t been home all night, a situation that was becoming alarmingly frequent. It was time to have a showdown. But young Jerome and his father had come to the office that day, and she was shunted off to another room. She heard the story. Kenneth Jerome couldn’t deny hitting his victim; the police had already traced his car to the garage where it was being repaired.

“I didn’t know I’d hit a woman,” Kenneth Jerome explained. “I didn’t see anyone. I thought I felt a thud, but it’s open country out near the airport. Sometimes you hit a rabbit or even a cat late at night. And it was late. Somewhere near three-thirty, I think. Anyway, I thought that’s what happened when I got home and saw my right front fender. I thought I’d hit a rabbit or a cat.”

And Arnold’s voice had queried him from across the desk.

“Is that what you told the police?”

“Sure, it is. What else could I tell them?”

“Is there a traffic signal at that intersection?”

“There is — but there wasn’t another car in sight.”

“Was the signal with you, or against you?”

“It was with me. It was green.”

“Is that what you told the police?”

“Sure, it is. I said the woman must have tried to cross against the light. I didn’t see her at all.”

And then Arnold had smiled. From the next room, Naomi couldn’t see the smile; but she could hear it in his words.

“Very good, Mr. Jerome. Now, unless you want me to throw this case back in your teeth, tell me what really happened last night. I don’t deal with clients who aren’t honest with me...”

Honest was one of Arnold’s favorite words. It had an exceptional meaning to him.

“To be perfectly honest with you, Naomi, I never did love you. Not the way a man wants to love a woman. Your father had influence and I needed a start. It was that simple.”

Echoes. She pushed them from her mind. She had come to watch Henry Babcock take his punishment for being a good citizen.

Arnold’s voice came again. “You were standing on the sidewalk near the intersection at the time of the accident, is that right?”

Henry Babcock was merely nervous at this stage of the cross-examination. He was a rather slight man, balding, had a clean shaven face and wore thick lensed glasses that magnified his eyes owlishly. He might have been Arnold’s age, Naomi realized with a sense of incredulity. There was no other similarity. Henry Babcock looked shabby and servile. There was a natural elite, Arnold had always maintained, that was predestined to govern any society. At the moment, the validity of his theory seemed self-evident.

“Not exactly,” Henry Babcock answered. “I was sitting on a bench at the bus stop, waiting for a bus.”

“And how far was the bench from the intersection, Mr. Babcock?”

Henry Babcock hesitated. “I don’t know as I could say, exactly. Not very far.”

“Not very far.” Arnold smiled. He was always dangerous when he smiled. “That doesn’t help the jury much, does it, Mr. Babcock? Can’t you be more specific? Was it as far” — he turned slowly, his eyes sweeping the courtroom and finally coming to rest — “as from where you’re sitting to where the defendant is sitting?”

“Well, now, I don’t know—”

“Yes or no, Mr. Babcock?”

The question was like a whip. Henry Babcock straightened his glasses and sat at attention.

“Well, yes,” he said.

“The bench was the same distance from the intersection as you are from Mr. Jerome at this moment?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good. Now please continue and tell the jury just what happened...”

What had happened? Naomi’s mind would wander, no matter how she tried to keep it in line. Was it really as simple as Arnold had said — merely a marriage of convenience? It was difficult to believe. She knew why she’d married Arnold. She had loved him; she still loved him, in spite of what he’d become. Was she somehow responsible for that? She’d tried to be a good wife and mother; she tried to keep up with Arnold’s dazzling success...

“Mr. Babcock” — Arnold’s voice intruded on the memories again — “I want you to clarify one detail. You say that you didn’t see Agnes Thompson prior to the accident. You were sitting on the bench waiting for a bus. Mrs. Thompson approached the intersection from the east—”

Someone had set up a blackboard in view of the judge and the jury. On it was drawn the intersection with crosses indicating the location of the bench and Henry Babcock, the spot where the accident occurred, and now, at Arnold’s instruction, another cross for Mrs. Thompson approaching the intersection.

“We know that she came from the east,” Arnold continued, “because we know that she had been visiting a sick grandchild and was returning to her own home, six blocks distant, only after the grandchild had shown signs of recovery and gone to sleep. Presumably, Mrs. Thompson was weary after the strain of her vigil; presumably, she walked with a heavy tread — she was a rather heavy woman. How do you account for not hearing Mrs. Thompson approach the intersection, Mr. Babcock?”

Henry Babcock appeared puzzled. He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully with one hand, and the light glinted off the lens of his eyeglasses. The staring eyes of the jury and the courtroom seemed to bother him. The question bothered him, too.

“I didn’t say that I didn’t hear her,” he answered.

“Then you did hear her.”

“I didn’t say that, either. Maybe I heard her. I don’t remember. I was tired, too. I’d just come from work.”

“At the Century Club?”

“Yes sir. I clean up there after the place closes at two o’clock.”

“Two a.m., that is.”

“Yes, sir.”

Two a.m. It was difficult to find an accident witness in broad daylight; but when, a few days after taking the case, Arnold had received an urgent telephone call from Jerome Sr. at a similar hour of a different morning, he knew there was work ahead. It was in the downstairs hall. Arnold had just come in. He still wore his black Homburg and black topcoat over his tuxedo. Naomi had descended most of the way down the stairs, having started when she heard him come in. He took the call in silence, concluding it with a curt assurance that he would handle everything. He’d dropped the telephone back into the cradle for a moment; then took it up again and dialed.

“Fran? Arnold here. Sorry to call you now, but something’s come up. The Jerome case — a witness. Yes, the police are keeping him under wraps; but old man Jerome just got wind of it at a cocktail party and passed the word along. Now, here’s what I want you to do. Get the wheels rolling. Get everything you can on Henry Babcock. That’s right. Babcock. He’s a janitor, or porter, or some such thing at the Century Club. He was waiting for a bus to go home after work when the accident happened. I want him tabbed from the year One. You know how.”

Arnold had dropped the telephone back into the cradle and turned around. Naomi was at the bottom of the stairs by that time. He stared at her without seeming to see her at all.

“Is that who she is?” Naomi had asked. “Is it Fran, your secretary?”

Arnold’s eyebrows had a way of knitting together when he was annoyed. At that moment she hadn’t been sure whether he was more annoyed with her question or with Jerome’s call; but it was probably the latter. She didn’t even possess nuisance value any more.

“Is that who who is?” he’d asked.

“The woman you’ve been with tonight.”

She’d reached out and straightened his tie. Old-fashioned as it was, and Arnold did hate being old-fashioned about anything.

“You’re talking nonsense, Naomi. Go to bed.”

It was the way to dismiss a child. He’d stalked upstairs, his mind busy with the problem of Henry Babcock, good citizen, bent on the folly of doing his duty...

And so they were in the courtroom, and Arnold was solving his problem.

“... so, at approximately half-past three, having finished your work at the Century Club, you were sitting on a bench at the bus stop waiting for transportation to take you home. Where do you live, Mr. Babcock?”

It was an innocent question. Henry Babcock answered without hesitation.

“In Inglewood,” he said. “I’ve got a three-room apartment.”

“And do you live alone?”

“Yes, sir. Since my wife died three years ago.”

“Since your wife died,” Arnold repeated. “My sympathies, Mr. Babcock. It must be lonely, coming home to an empty apartment.”

The prosecutor stirred uneasily. He seemed to sense some ulterior motivation behind the question. Before he could object, Henry Babcock, who sensed nothing but the discomfort of the witness box, had answered.

“Yes, sir, it is,” he said.

“But you do have friends.”

“Friends?”

“At your place of employment. I believe the Century Club employs entertainers, including several very attractive young ladies. I understand that you do little favors for them, such as bringing coffee to the dressing rooms—”

The prosecutor leaped to his feet.

“Your Honor, I object to this line of questioning. We aren’t here to ascertain the witness’s sociability, or to delve into his personal life.”

Arnold turned toward him, smiling.

“And why aren’t we?” he asked. “The witness has testified in direct contradiction to the sworn statement of my client. Obviously, one of these two men is either mistaken or an outright liar. I see nothing objectionable, in attempting to establish the character of the witness. For that matter, I see nothing objectionable — although the learned prosecutor seems to differ with me on this point — in a lonely widower bringing coffee to a ladies’ dressing room.”

There was something diabolical about Arnold in action. Naomi was beginning to realize that. In a few words, he’d turned the prosecutor into an unwitting counsel for the defense. The man sat down, chastened and confused.

Arnold turned back to Henry Babcock.

“Agnes Thompson approached the intersection from the east,” he resumed. “That means that she came from behind you, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” Babcock answered.

“Yes, because you sat on a bench parallel to a street running north and south. The bench” — Arnold referred to the blackboard again — “is on the southeast corner of the intersection. The signal, which you have testified was red when my client’s automobile struck Mrs. Thompson, is approximately ten feet north of the bench, which would have been to your right as you sat facing the street. Correct?”

Henry Babcock adjusted his glasses and leaned forward to follow Arnold’s indications on the blackboard map.

“Yes, that’s correct,” he agreed.

“And so, you were sitting on the bench, tired after the night’s work.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And alone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Waiting for a bus to take you home to your apartment where you live alone.”

Babcock’s forehead had corrugated into a puzzled frown, but he answered.

“Yes, sir.”

“You looked at the signal, and saw that it was red.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And before it changed to green, my client’s automobile raced past the intersection, striking down Mrs. Thompson, whom you hadn’t noticed prior to the accident—” Arnold paused, as if only at that instant discovering a flaw in the testimony. “Now, that does seem strange,” he mused aloud. “You turned your head to the right and saw that the signal was red. Why didn’t you also see Mrs. Thompson preparing to step down into the cross-walk?”

There was a slight murmur in the courtroom. Arnold’s strategy was beginning to take hold.

“I don’t know,” Babcock answered. “I guess she wasn’t there yet when I looked.”

“Then you must have looked away from the light for a time.”

Babcock hesitated, sensing a trap.

“The light was red!” he insisted.

“But you didn’t see Mrs. Thompson.”

“It was dark.”

“Isn’t there a street lamp at that intersection? Think, Mr. Babcock.”

“There’s a street lamp, but it only shines so far. After that, it’s dark.”

“And yet Mrs. Thompson would have had to come into that arc of light, wouldn’t she?”

“Maybe she came too fast for me to see her. Maybe she was running.”

“Running?” Arnold caught up the word and dangled it before the ears of the court. “Now, why would she have been running, Mr. Babcock? Haven’t we already established that it was late, very late, and that she must have been weary from sitting up with a sick grandchild?”

Henry Babcock was an uncomplicated man who, very likely, had never sat in a witness box before in his life. He’d come to do his duty, and yet, by answering extemporaneously a few minor questions he hadn’t thought through, he’d gotten himself into trouble. He glanced pleadingly at the prosecutor, who was helpless at the moment, and then got himself into worse trouble.

“Maybe she was afraid.”

“But why should she have been afraid?” Arnold demanded.

“Because it was so late. It’s not safe for a woman out alone at that hour. Things happen. You read about it in the paper all the time.”

Arnold listened carefully to Henry Babcock, so carefully that he caught up the entire courtroom in his attitude and everyone listened, carefully.

“I read about it?” he echoed. “What do I read about?”

The accentuated pronoun forced Henry Babcock to a correction.

“I mean, people do,” he explained. “Anybody.”

“I think what you mean,” Arnold interpolated, “is that you read about it all the time. Now, just what do you read?”

Henry Babcock was perspiring freely. He didn’t bother to wipe his brow.

“Things that happen,” he said. “Robberies, attacks—”

“And you always read about these things, is that right, Mr. Babcock? When you’re all finished bringing coffee to the ladies’ dressing room, and cleaning up the deserted club, you go home to your apartment, alone, and read about terrible things that happen to women who go out on the streets at night—”

Arnold’s voice was an instrument played with professional skill. It was impossible not to be drawn along with it. But he got no farther before the prosecutor was on his feet shouting an objection. Arnold smiled at him with an expression of tolerant patience, and only Naomi understood what was happening. The innocent must always be made to appear guilty. This was Arnold’s secret of success.

“... I don’t want a scene, Naomi. This woman need never have come between us if you hadn’t insisted on a showdown. I’m not planning to divorce you, or to allow you to divorce me. I can’t afford a scandal, and you have the children to consider even if my career means nothing to you...”

The innocent must always be made to appear guilty.

“Your Honor,” Arnold continued, with mock humility, “I’m deeply sorry if my remarks have caused prejudice in the minds of the jury. It wasn’t my intention to infer that the witness has socially undesirable tendencies. Nevertheless, I’m still curious as to how he could have turned his head to observe the traffic signal and not have seen a woman about to step out into the crosswalk. If he was tired, he might have been dozing; but then, he wouldn’t have seen the signal. If, however, he was alert enough to notice the signal, why didn’t he see Mrs. Thompson?”

With these words, Arnold swung back to Henry Babcock.

“Or did you see her, Mr. Babcock?”

Henry Babcock drew back in the box.

“No,” he said.

“Are you sure, Mr. Babcock? A few moments ago you were positive that you didn’t see her; a few moments later you thought that you might have heard her. Now you can’t seem to explain why you didn’t see her. Isn’t it possible that you did see her? That perhaps you spoke to her?”

“No—”

“That you approached her?”

“No! I never left the bench!”

“You never left the bench, and yet, with an automobile approaching, and surely Mrs. Thompson could have seen the headlights, the victim stepped off the curb and into its path. Why did she do that, Mr. Babcock, unless, as you have suggested, she was startled out of her wits? Was there anyone else in the vicinity at the time?”

Babcock was no longer bewildered; he was furious.

“No!” he shouted.

“Then no one could have startled Mrs. Thompson unless it was yourself.”

“I didn’t say she was startled.”

“But you suggested it. You suggested that she might have been running. These are interesting suggestions, in view of the fact that you knew no one other than yourself was in the vicinity. Since you’ve volunteered this much light on the mystery of what happened at that intersection the night Mrs. Thompson died, perhaps, remembering that you’re under oath, you would like to tell the whole truth.”

Arnold waited for an answer, and the court waited with him.

“I told the truth!” Babcock insisted. “The whole truth!”

“Thank you, Mr. Babcock.”

Arnold stepped back. He seemed ready to release the witness; only Naomi knew it was a feint. There had been another telephone call only this morning. She’d overheard enough to know Henry Babcock wasn’t going to get off so easily.

“... Yes, Fran, he’s going to be tough to crack — too clean. Nothing on him unless I can color up that job of his. What? Do you have proof? Good girl! Of course, it’s enough. I’ll make it enough.”

And then he’d looked up to find Naomi staring at him accusingly.

“What are you going to do to that poor man?” she had asked.

“I’m going to win my case,” he had answered.

“Your client is guilty.”

“Not until the jury brings in a verdict. Don’t look so shocked, Naomi. You can’t be that naive! A courtroom is just like a battlefield. When a soldier’s ordered to take an objective, he can’t consider if innocent people will be hurt. There are no innocent people; there are only the quick and the dead. I’m one of the quick. Because of that, you live in a beautiful home, wear lovely clothes, drive an expensive sedan—”

“Who is the woman, Arnold?”

And that was when he had stopped evading her.

“I’m not cruel, Naomi; I’m honest. I could lie to you. It would be easy, easier than you know...”

Sitting among the spectators in the courtroom, Naomi learned how easy it was.

“Mr. Babcock—” Arnold swung back to face the witness, his sudden movement and the sound of his voice magnetizing attention. “How long have you been employed at the Century Club?”

The change of tactic puzzled Babcock.

“Ten months,” he said.

“I don’t suppose your salary is anything remarkable.”

“I don’t need much.”

“Still, it’s not comparable to — let us say, an instructor of mathematics and mechanical drawing at Freeman High School, which position you held for fourteen years prior to your employment at the Century Club. Tell me, Mr. Babcock, why does a man of your background work as a porter in a cheap night club? Why are you reduced to pushing a broom and running errands for showgirls? Or does this explain better?”

No one was prepared for Arnold’s next move, least of all Henry Babcock. When Arnold reached out and snatched the glasses from his eyes, Babcock rose from the chair, grasped at empty air, and barely steadied himself against the side of the bench short of falling.

“My glasses—” he gasped.

“Your eyes, Mr. Babcock!” Arnold corrected. “Isn’t it true that you relinquished your profession because you were going blind?”

“No! I had cataracts—”

“Because your vision was eighty-five per cent impaired when you underwent surgery eight months ago? Because you were totally color blind?”

Arnold had won his case. Naomi could sense the feeling of the court even before her ears picked up the murmur. By that time, Henry Babcock was trying to explain that an operation had restored vision to one eye and he was awaiting the required full year before a second operation that would restore the other; but few people heard.

“I’ll be good as new!” he insisted. “I’ll get my teaching job back—”

“But you weren’t ‘good as new’ the night you claim to have seen my client go through a red light!”

“With my glasses, I can see color!”

“Out of which eye?”

“The left eye. The one that had the operation.”

“But the signal is to your right.”

“I turned my head.”

“But you didn’t see Mrs. Thompson.”

“I couldn’t. I can’t see out of the sides — only straight ahead.”

“Only straight ahead!” Arnold pounced on the phrase, as if he had been waiting for it all this time. “And how far straight ahead, Mr. Babcock? As far as from where you are sitting to the defendant — that’s what you said, didn’t you?”

Henry Babcock leaned forward, a grotesque figure of a man trying to peer through a fog.

“With my glasses—” he began.

“Your Honor,” Arnold announced, “I move that the testimony of the witness be stricken from the record. It’s obvious to everyone in this courtroom that he is not capable of giving reliable information on anything of a visual nature. The distance from the witness stand to the defendant, which Mr. Babcock has, under oath, declared to be the same as the distance from the bench on which he was seated at the time of the accident to the point at which the accident occurred, can’t possibly measure in excess of thirty feet. I invite the prosecution to check me on this.” There was no need to check. Naomi, remembering, realized when Arnold had set his trap. He was always dangerous when he smiled. “I have already checked the distance between the bench and the place of the accident,” he added, “and it is, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exactly sixty-two feet! Not only is the witness color blind, not only is he incapable of seeing out of the sides of his eyes; he is also completely unable to estimate simple distances. Unless he’s deliberately lying about everything, unless he did leave the bench and does know some reason why Mrs. Thompson stepped out in front of a fast moving automobile, the most charitable conclusion we can reach is that this poor man’s mind has been enfeebled by the double tragedy of losing his wife and almost losing his sight, and is incompetent to testify in a court of law!”

The prosecution roared a protest. Arnold turned toward him with a gesture of contemptuous dismissal.

“Your witness!” he said.

The jury was out fifteen minutes. After the acquittal, Arnold received congratulations with his customary indifference. The courtroom emptied. Naomi watched a defeated little man make his way toward the corridor: Henry Babcock, ex-good citizen. She caught his eyes, magnified by the lenses of the glasses, as he went by. It had been murder. He went out and she waited alone for Arnold.

“So that’s how you take an objective,” she said. “Did you have to destroy his character as well as his testimony? Do you think he’ll ever get that teaching job back now?”

“If he’s man enough,” Arnold said. “That’s his problem, not mine.”

“Your problem is only how to get rid of a bothersome wife, isn’t it?”

Arnold didn’t seem to consider the question worth answering. They went out together. The sidewalk was deserted now except for a dejected man waiting at the bus stop, a man for whom Arnold didn’t have so much as a glance. At the entrance to the parking lot, he looked up and frowned at the sky. It was starting to rain lightly.

“I’m glad you decided to visit court today, Naomi,” he said. “I’ve got a five o’clock appointment and it’s the very devil to catch a cab in bad weather.”

“Five o’clock?” Naomi echoed. “That gives you time to pick up flowers. Shall I stop at a florist?”

“No, thank you, Naomi. Just get your car, please. I’ll wait.”

And Arnold waited. He stood at the edge of the parking lot driveway, so supremely confident that he didn’t so much as step back when Naomi brought the sedan around. He didn’t even have time to change his self-satisfied expression to surprise when she suddenly cut the wheels and slammed her foot on the accelerator.

After the police officer had extracted Arnold’s body from under the wheels, Naomi tried to explain.

“It was a mistake!” she sobbed. “I meant to put my foot on the brake, not the accelerator! It was a terrible mistake!”

A small crowd had gathered, but there was only one eye-witness. The officer turned to him, and for a moment Naomi caught a glimpse of the man’s eyes. The sympathy she’d given him in the courtroom was in them.

“If this woman is the victim’s wife, surely she’s telling the truth,” he said. “Anyway, what I might have seen couldn’t contradict her.” Henry Babcock removed his glasses and blinked at the blur which was the policeman. “It’s a legal fact,” he said, “that I’m not a reliable witness.”

One should make a confession of murder properly. As is the case at all social functions, suitable attire is most important. When admitting to first-degree murder, a dark, conservative business suit — in keeping with premeditation — is beyond reproach. Shun the hand-painted tie, the light-colored sock, and the electrified bow tie.

The man came into the homicide squadroom about nine a.m. He was about forty-five, well-dressed and freshly shaven. His suit had been so recently pressed, it looked as though he hadn’t even sat down in it since it left the ironing board. His whole appearance was neat, except that his necktie was slightly off-center and his hair was sloppily combed.

He gave the impression that he had been busily trying to sober up after an all-night binge by having a cold shower and a lot of black coffee. He’d also made himself presentable. The sobering-up process had, obviously, not been completely successful.

I said, “Yes, sir?”

Leaning his hands on the edge of the table where I was sitting, he carefully looked me up and down. “You a policeman?”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Sergeant Sod Harris.”

“You’re not wearing a policeman’s suit,” he said owlishly.

“In the detective bureau we don’t wear policemen’s suits,” I said. “Believe me, I’m a policeman.”

He let go of the table edge, straightened up and swayed slightly. “All right. If you’re a policeman, lock me up.”

I looked him over thoughtfully. Sam Wiggens, who was checking a case in one of the filing cabinets, put the folder back, and came over to stand alongside of me.

I said, “You done something to be locked up?”

The man gave his head an impatient shake. “Just want to be looted up.”

“Why?”

“You need a reason?”

Sam Wiggens said, “There has to be a charge, mister. We’re not running a boarding house.”

The man turned his gaze to Sam. It took him time to focus his eyes. “Is drunk good enough?” he inquired.

Sam looked him up and down. “Might be.”

“Well, you ever see anybody drunker?”

Sam looked at me and I looked at him. Turning back to the drunk, I asked, “How’d you happen to come here?”

“What?”

“To this office. Know where you are?”

He considered this before saying brightly, “Sign on the door said Homicide.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You wanted to turn in drunk, why didn’t you just go to the Central District desk downstairs?”

This presented him with a problem. He had to consider some more before saying, “Just came in the first door I saw.”

“On the third floor?” Sam inquired. “You didn’t notice any doors on the way up?”

The drunk looked from Sam to me and back again. He couldn’t seem to think of any answer.

I said, “Want to tell us your name, mister?”

He shook his head. “I don’t see that that’s necessary. Look, gentlemen, I came in here voluntarily. I wasn’t arrested and dragged in. There’s no reason to treat me like a criminal.”

Sam said, “Nobody’s treating you like a criminal. We just want to know who you are.”

“Mind if I sit down and explain things?” he said.

“Go ahead,” I told him.

The man carefully seated himself across from me, fumbled out a package of cigarettes and gave me an inquiring look. I pushed an ash tray toward him and held a lighted match to his cigarette.

“Thanks,” he said, inhaling.

He offered the pack to us, and we both shook our heads.

“About this explanation—” I prodded.

“Well, first you must understand that I have a rather prominent social position.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I wouldn’t want it in the papers that I’d been booked as a common drunk. Even though I am a common drunk.”

Sam said, “You going to get to the point, mister?”

“I’m getting there. You see I’m an alcoholic.”

“No!” I said.

“Fact. A periodic. Sometimes I go for months without a drink. Doesn’t bother me a bit. Go to cocktail parties, watch everybody else slugging it down, don’t have the least desire to touch it myself. Then, for no reason, I decide to try a single sip. And bingo.”

Neither Sam nor I said anything.

“Don’t know why I do it,” he went on. “Same thing always happens.”

“What’s that?” I inquired.

“I get drunk and stay that way for days.”

Sam asked, “How long’s it been this time?”

“Three and a half days,” he said promptly. Someone must have told him, because he couldn’t have been keeping track of time. “After eighteen months without a drink.”

I said, “You still haven’t said why you came here.”

“Well, sir, I decided the only way to stop was to get myself locked up. No way I could get hold of it in jail, you see.”

I grunted and Sam said, “You always sober up this way?”

“Sir?”

“Ever turned yourself in before?”

He shook his head. “First time I’ve tried it.”

“What made you decide this time?”

He shrugged. “Just seemed like a good idea.”

I said, “Want to tell us your name now?”

He shook his head again. “I explained why I can’t do that.”

After looking him over for a moment, I said, “Mind emptying your pockets?”

Agreeably, he began removing items from his pockets and laying them on the table. There was a handkerchief, a pack of cigarettes, a book of matches, a key ring with some door keys on it, some change and a money clip containing a few bills.

I said, “No wallet?”

He smiled. “I anticipated this. I left all identification at home.”

Sam and I exchanged glances. Sam asked, “You ever been arrested?”

“No, sir,” he said with an emphatic headshake.

Picking up the key ring, I handed it to Sam. “Take this up to the lab, Sam, and run them all through the key machine.”

The man straightened in his chair. “What’s the key machine?” he asked suspiciously.

“A machine that identifies locks,” I told him. “We’ll have your home address in fifteen minutes.”

He looked at me uncertainly. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“You know it now. Go ahead, Sam.”

Sam was moving toward the door when the man said, “Wait a minute.”

Sam halted to look at him. We both waited.

The man said, “I wouldn’t want my wife to know about this.”

We continued to wait.

“All right,” he said with an air of resignation. “My name’s George Cooper.”

I asked, “Where do you live?”

He gave me an address on Lindell Boulevard. While I was writing it down, Sam tossed the key ring back on the table and returned to his previous spot.

I said, “Now let’s get back to the important question. Why’d you come to Homicide?”

“I told you,” Cooper said. “It was the first door I saw.”

The phone rang and Sam answered it. “Homicide. Wiggens.”

After listening a moment, he said, “Yeah, he made it. Thanks for checking.”

He hung up, glanced at Cooper, then at me. “Information desk downstairs,” he said. “Just checking up.”

“On what?” I asked.

“Fellow asked where to find Homicide. They wondered if he ever got there. They thought he might have been too drunk to find his way.”

We both looked at George Cooper, who tapped ashes from his cigarette in an elaborate pretense that he didn’t know what Sam was talking about.

I said to Sam, “See if he has a record.”

Sam went over to pick up the phone. I gazed at George Cooper steadily while Sam was giving his name and description to Records. Avoiding my eyes, the man butted his cigarette.

While waiting for Records to phone back, we continued to question Cooper, but he still refused to say why he had turned himself into Homicide instead of downstairs. When Records finally phoned back that there was no package on the man, we gave up. We decided to take him down to Central District and book him.

Rising, I said, “Okay, Cooper. Let’s go.”

“Where?” he inquired.

“Downstairs. You wanted jail, didn’t you?”

Getting to his feet, Cooper began putting his possessions back in his pockets. “Well, finally,” he said. “It’s certainly hard to get arrested around here.” Then he paused with his key ring in his hands. “It’s all right to take my things back, isn’t it?”

“For now,” Sam said. “They’ll check them for you downstairs.”

Cooper returned the rest of the items to his pockets. He emitted a relieved sigh.

“Now I won’t have to worry any more,” he said.

“About what?” I asked.

“Getting in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“You know,” he said vaguely. “I forget things when I black out. Later people tell me I’ve done things I shouldn’t.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Oh, different things. Get belligerent, maybe. Start a fight.”

“You have a fight somewhere?”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “I was just giving an example.”

I said, “You turned in here to keep from getting in a fight?”

He pursed his lips. “Well, you might say that.”

“With who?”

“A friend of mine,” he said reluctantly.

“He got a name?”

“Henry Marks,” he said even more reluctantly. “My next-door neighbor.”

Sam asked, “You have some trouble with this Marks?”

“Not trouble,” Cooper said with a shake of his head. “He’s been hanging around my wife, is all. I just told him to stay away.”

Sam looked at me. “That name ring a bell, Sod?”

I shook my head. “Not to me.”

Sam puzzled over it for a moment then walked over to the bulletin board. After glancing it over, he nodded with satisfaction.

“Thought I’d seen it,” he announced. “On the M.P. bulletin. Henry Marks has been missing since last Friday.”

We both stared at George Cooper, who suddenly looked uncomfortable.

“You better sit back down again, Mr. Cooper,” I said. “We’ve got a lot more talking to do.”

It took us another half hour to get about half a story out of Cooper. At first he insisted he knew nothing of Henry Marks’s whereabouts. But eventually he began to change his story. He admitted having a fight with Henry Marks when he discovered him in his home. But he insisted that it hadn’t been much of a fight and that the missing man was all right when he left Cooper’s home immediately after the fight. He further insisted that the fight had taken place only the previous night. According to the M.P. report, at that time Marks had been missing three days.

I said, “Last night was Monday. You sure this fight didn’t take place Friday?”

“Of course I’m sure,” he said in a sullen voice.

“Maybe you had one of your blackouts,” Sam suggested. “Maybe you lost a couple of days.”

Cooper said, “Listen, it was last night. I was blacked out, but the fight sobered me up. When I saw what I’d done—”

He stopped abruptly and stared from one to the other of us, appalled at his slip of the tongue.

“Go on,” I said quietly.

“I mean — you see, I don’t remember the fight at all. Don’t remember coming home — anything about it. My wife had to tell me.”

“Tell you what?” I asked.

Cooper looked from me to Sam with a trapped expression on his face. He opened and closed his mouth twice before he finally got anything out.

“I may as well tell you,” he finally managed. “I meant to when I came in.”

“Go ahead,” I told him.

“I got cold feet. I meant to tell the whole thing when I came here. Then I got scared.”

Sam and I waited.

After a long pause, he said in a bare whisper, “I killed him.”

The man dropped his face in his hands. We sat watching him and after a moment he listlessly dropped his hands to his sides and sat in a dejected attitude, his head down.

“Want to tell us about it?” I inquired.

He told us then. Once he had brought himself to admit the crime, he answered everything we asked willingly, but without spirit. He said he had left his home in a mildly intoxicated condition about 8:00 p.m. the previous Friday. After a round of taverns and night clubs, he had checked into a hotel and continued drinking in his room. Saturday, Sunday and Monday were largely blank. Except for brief periods he recalled nothing until he was awakened on his front-room couch by his wife shaking him. Henry Marks lay on the floor dead, his skull crushed by a pair of fire tongs.

I said, “You remember nothing at all about the fight?”

“Just what Helen told me,” he said dully. “She saw it.”

“What’s her story?”

“I came staggering in, found Henry there and accused him of chasing Helen. One thing led to another, and finally he hit me.” He felt of his jaw. “Ought to remember that. Still hurts. But I don’t.”

“Then what happened?” I asked.

“Helen says I fell near the fireplace. When I got up, I had the tongs in my hand. I swung them and George dropped.” His voice grew tired. “That’s all there is to it.”

“Not quite,” I said. “There’s still one small item you haven’t covered. What did you do with the body?”

“Oh, that,” he said almost with indifference. “I buried him in the back yard.” After a pause, he offered, “I’ll show you right where, if you’d like.”

We told him we’d like. Booking him on suspicion of homicide, we had him checked out in our custody. Before leaving headquarters, we called the lab and asked for a technician to meet us at Cooper’s home. We suggested he bring along a pair of strong-backed rookies with shovels. Then we drove out to Cooper’s home on Lindell Boulevard.

Cooper lived right across from Forest Park, in one of the richest sections in St. Louis. He, therefore, might very well have been as socially prominent as he had claimed. His home, a two-story affair of tan brick, was set fifty feet back from the street and had about a hundred feet between it and the houses either side.

Sam turned the car into the driveway and parked alongside the house. We all got out and walked around to the back. Leading us to the rear of the yard. Cooper dully nodded toward a freshly-spaded section of garden.

“Right there,” he said in a low voice.

Sam said, “It’s a neat job. Smoothed off nice and even. What’d you do with the extra dirt?”

“Dumped it out back in a ditch.”

“Haw’d you manage such a clean job, as drunk as you were?” Sam asked. “And how come the neighbors didn’t see you?”

“Helen helped me. And it was dark last night. We didn’t use a light except to check up on how it looked afterward.”

The back door opened and a slim, rather pretty woman of about forty came outside. She wore a concerned expression on her face and her eyes widened when she got close enough to see Cooper’s handcuffs.

“What is it?” she asked on a high note. “Are you men police officers?”

I said, “Yes, ma’am. I’m Sergeant Sod Harris of Homicide. This is Officer Sam Wiggens.”

“Homicide?” she said. “Why is my husband handcuffed? George, what is it?”

In a low voice Cooper said, “I told them about it.”

“About what?” She looked at me. “What’s he done?”

“We understood you knew, lady,” I said.

She looked frightenedly from me to Sam and then at her husband. “Knew what?”

“It’s no use, Helen,” Cooper said in a weary tone. “I told them everything.”

Her nervous gaze made another circuit of all three of us. She took a deep breath and said rapidly, “I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

I said, “Afraid it’s not that easy. Your husband says you helped him conceal the body.”

Glancing at Cooper, she nervously worked her hands together.

Sam said, “Makes you an accessory, lady.”

“You can’t blame me for not reporting it,” she said. “He’s my husband. A wife doesn’t have to testify against her own husband. Right?”

“Sure,” Sam said dryly. “But she doesn’t have to help him bury bodies either.”

Art Ward from the lab came around the corner of the house carrying a lab kit and a camera. He had two uniformed cops with him carrying shovels. Mrs. Cooper stared at the shovels as if she’d never seen one before.

“Hi, Sod, Sam,” Ward said. “What’s the scoop?” He gave Cooper and Mrs. Cooper a curious glance.

I pointed to the spaded area. “Right there, Art. Should be a body.” I turned to the woman. “Maybe we’d better go inside while they’re digging, Mrs. Cooper.”

She nodded and then led the way toward the house, with her husband following and Sam and me bringing up the rear. One of the policemen sank his shovel into the ground as we walked away.

She only took us as far as the kitchen. Offering us seats at the kitchen table, she said in a flustered voice, “You’ll have to excuse the house. The servants have been gone several days. I... I always let them have off when George...” She let her voice trail off.

Cooper said glumly, “She means she gives them a vacation when I fall off the wagon. She doesn’t want them to know how I am.”

I glanced around. The place looked clean enough to me.

I said, “Now, Mrs. Cooper, you want to tell us about last night?”

She was standing by the window over the sink, her attention divided between us and what was going on outside. “What is there to tell?” she asked. “George said he told you all about it.”

“We’d like your version,” I said. “Incidentally, we came inside so you wouldn’t have to watch what was going on out there. Don’t you think it would be better if you came away from the window?”

Flushing, she came over to the table and sank into a chair. “What do you want me to tell you, Sergeant? George came home drunk and found Mr. Marks here. They had a fight and George hit him with the fire tongs. That’s all there is to it.”

“How did Marks happen to be here?” I asked.

“He came to the door about fifteen minutes before George got home. He’d been drinking too, but I didn’t realize that until after I’d let him in. He... he tried to get fresh with me. I ordered him out of the house, but he wouldn’t go. Then George staggered in and the argument started. It would never have happened if George had been home where he belonged instead of out getting drunk. Drink was the cause of the whole thing. How many times I’ve warned my husband. George, haven’t I done everything possible to make you stop?”

“I guess,” Cooper said in a low voice.

There was a knock at the back door. Mrs. Cooper started to get up, but I waved her back to her seat and answered it myself. Art Ward was standing on the back porch. Stepping out, I closed the door behind me.

“It was there all right, Sod,” he said. “Got a bashed-in skull. He was only buried about a foot down.”

I walked back to the grave with him to look at the body. It had been lifted out alongside of the hole. It was still all covered with dirt.

“How long do you figure?” I asked Ward.

He shrugged. “No bloating. I’d guess under twenty-four hours. You’ll have to wait for the coroner’s physician to make a post mortem if you want it pinpointed.”

I said, “Our information is he died last night.”

“I’d figure about that,” he agreed. “In this weather it doesn’t take long for them to begin to swell. And he hasn’t started yet.”

I sent one of the uniformed policemen over next door to break the news to the victim’s wife and bring her over to identify the body. She was a mousy little woman of middle age and she went all to pieces when she saw what was left of her husband. She managed to identify him, but she was too upset right then to question. I sent her back home accompanied by the same officer who had brought her over. I told him to phone her family doctor to come over and see if he could quiet her down. Then I went back inside.

I took Art Ward back inside with me, having him bring his lab kit. Mrs. Cooper took us into the front room and pointed out the fire tongs, which still lay next to the fireplace with dried blood on them. I told Ward to check them for prints, then take them back to the lab.

There wasn’t much more we could do at the scene. Sam called City Hospital for an ambulance to take the body to the morgue, while I went next door to see how Mrs. Marks was doing. Her family doctor had arrived and had put her under a sedative. I left word with a servant for Mrs. Marks to drop down to headquarters the next day if she felt better, or to phone me if she wasn’t up to it.

We took both Mr. and Mrs. Cooper back downtown. Cooper had already been booked, so we just turned him over to Central District and had him put in a cell. Pending further investigation, we booked Mrs. Cooper on suspicion of being an accessory to homicide and held her overnight.

The next morning, Wednesday, Mrs. Marks’s maid phoned that her mistress was feeling better and would be down to see us about ten a.m., if that was suitable. I said it was fine.

A few minutes later Art Ward phoned from the lab.

“Fingerprints all over those fire tongs,” he said. “Mr. Cooper’s, Mrs. Cooper’s, some other people who will probably turn out to be servants. Everybody who ever fixed the fire last winter, I guess.”

“Any superimposed over the others, to show who handled them last?”

He snorted. “That’s for the movies. We’re not that brilliant.”

Mousy little Mrs. Marks came into the squadroom just as I hung up. She hadn’t met Sam yesterday because he had been inside with the Coopers. After introducing him, I asked the woman to have a seat.

“We’re sorry to impose on you so soon after your loss, Mrs. Marks,” I said. “But it has to be done.”

“It’s all right,” she said listlessly.

I said, “We’ll make this as short as possible. We know it’s painful for you.”

“I have plenty of time,” she said drearily. “Time is all I have left. But I suppose I shouldn’t complain. I’ve spent most of my life waiting anyway.”

“How’s that?” I inquired.

“For him. If I had back all the hours I’ve waited up, wondering where he was...”

When her voice trailed off, I said, “Your husband?”

She nodded. “I never really blamed him for it. He was awfully handsome, you know. And I’m so plain. I suppose I was lucky to have Henry at all, even to share with other women.”

It seemed like a peculiar philosophy, but I wasn’t going to argue with her. I said, “There’s some question about the date of your husband’s disappearance, Mrs. Marks. It may help to backtrack his movements. Now the M.P. report says you first missed him about nine Friday evening.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “I didn’t miss him until eight Saturday morning. Nine Friday evening was just the last I saw him.”

I said, “I don’t think I follow.”

“He went out about nine Friday night,” she explained. “I was upset when he didn’t come home, but not worried. About anything having happened to him, I mean. It wasn’t the first time he’d stayed out all night. I didn’t really begin to worry until about seven-thirty the next morning. By eight I knew something had happened.”

Sam asked, “How was that?”

“He always came home to shave and shower before going to work. He owned Marks’s Department Store, you know, and he never missed being there at opening time. He always said if the boss couldn’t get to work on time, he couldn’t expect the help to. He never came in later than seven-thirty unless it was a Sunday.”

I asked, “Any idea where he went when he left the house Friday evening?”

“I thought I had. But I decided I was wrong when I saw her go off shopping Saturday morning.”

“Who?” I inquired.

“Mrs. Cooper, next door. She always goes downtown shopping Saturday morning. Get’s all dressed up and leaves about eleven. When I saw her leave at her usual time, I figured I was wrong. She’d hardly have left him alone over there.”

Sam said, “You mean you thought your husband might have spent the night at the Cooper home?”

“Naturally,” she said. “Helen Cooper was his latest interest. Everybody in the neighborhood knew that.”

“Oh?” I said. “Including Mr. Cooper?”

“Well, maybe not him. But everybody else did. It was common gossip.”

I asked her to be a little more specific and she gave us the names of two neighbor friends whom she said would confirm what she had said about her husband and Helen Cooper. We also questioned her about her husband’s last movements, but she wasn’t very helpful on that point. She said she had watched him walk up the street in the direction of King’s Highway and go right past the Cooper home. If he had later doubled back, she hadn’t observed it.

We thanked her for her co-operation and let her go home.

“Let’s check with those neighbor women now,” I said to Sam Wiggens.

It was noon when we finished this chore. Both neighbors whose names Mrs. Marks had given us verified her contention. They said Marks had often been seen going into the Cooper home, when George Cooper wasn’t there.

We caught some lunch before driving back downtown. Instead of immediately returning to headquarters, we stopped by the morgue, which is just down the street from police headquarters.

Dr. Allan Swartz was the coroner’s physician who had performed the post mortem. We found him in his office.

“You want medical terms or lay terms?” he inquired.

“Keep it simple,” I said. “Sam didn’t have much education.”

Sam looked at me. “Sure,” he said. “Sod went all the way through grade school with honors.”

“He had his skull crushed by a blunt instrument,” Dr. Swartz told us. “That good enough?”

“Fine,” I said. “Were you able to fix a time of death?”

“You couldn’t even fix a date of death in a case like this. Unless you can tell me when he had stuffed peppers for dinner.”

“What do you mean?” I inquired.

“The body’s been under some kind of refrigeration. He could have been dead a week.”

Sam and I looked at each other. Sam said, “What’s the least amount of time he could have been dead?”

The doctor shrugged. “A few days. Last Friday night, Saturday morning, maybe.”

We thanked him and returned to headquarters. Stopping by Central District, we checked George and Helen Cooper out of their cells and took them upstairs for further questioning. Cooper was sober now and had an obvious hangover. It left him in a less co-operative mood than he had been in yesterday. When his wife took a seat, he refused one, preferring to stand and stare from me to Sam and back again with a truculent expression on his face.

“Well?” he asked. “Have you officers completed your investigation?”

“Just about,” I said. “Except for a few questions.”

“Just how thorough an investigation did you make?”

His tone caused me to examine him curiously. “What do you mean, Mr. Cooper?”

“I just wondered how you cops worked. When somebody confesses to a crime, do you let it go at that, or do you go out and do a little digging?”

“We do a little digging,” I assured him.

He opened his mouth to say something more, then winced and felt his head. “Wow! You got any aspirin?”

Sam said, “In my locker. Over here.”

He led Cooper across the room to his locker, then over to the water cooler for a glass of water to chase the aspirin.

I said to the woman, “Couple of things came up since we talked to you yesterday, Mrs. Cooper.”

“What things?”

“You forgot to mention how friendly you were with Henry Marks.”

Her face stiffened. “What do you mean by that?”

“Seems to be common knowledge in the neighborhood that he—”

“Gossip!” she interrupted indignantly. “Is that the way you policemen work? Go around listening to gossip?”

“One way.”

“Well, it isn’t true. I bet I know who started that rumor.”

“Yeah? Who?”

“That little vixen, Viola Marks. She’s so jealous, she’d even slander her own husband to get even.”

“Even for what?” I asked.

“For being better looking than she is. She hates me for it.”

Sam and George Cooper came back from the water cooler. Cooper said, “If I ever take another drink, I’ll kick myself — hard.”

“Feel better?” Sam asked.

“Not yet. It takes a while.”

I said, “I was just telling your wife about some new developments, Mr. Cooper.”

Helen Cooper said loudly, “Don’t you dare repeat that slander!”

Cooper winced and gave his wife an irritated look. “Do you have to yell?” He turned to me. “What slander?”

“It’s hardly slander,” I said. “We’ve pretty well established that your wife was carrying on an affair with Henry Marks.”

Mrs. Cooper got an outraged expression on her face, but her husband’s reaction seemed to surprise her out of saying anything. Instead of showing either astonishment or indignation, he merely gave an interested nod.

“You knew?” I inquired.

“Oh, no,” he said. “Merely suspected. I’ve caught him in the house a time or two. Helen insisted he’s been passing at her and she’s been resisting him. She’s begged me not to make an issue of it because she didn’t want trouble with neighbors. She said she could handle him all right. I guess I’m a henpecked husband. I let her think I believed her, when I really didn’t at all.”

“George!” she said in a shocked voice. “How can you say that?”

He ignored her.

I said, “Another development was that Marks had been dead three days at the time you were supposed to have your fight.”

This managed to surprise him. “Three days?” he said without understanding. “How could that be?”

“Why don’t you ask your wife?”

He turned to stare at Helen Cooper, who raised her chin and refused to meet his gaze.

“He’d been lying there dead for three days?” he asked slowly.

“Uh-huh,” I said.

The woman screamed at me, “You’re lying!”

Cooper put his hands to his ears and walked halfway across the room to sink into a chair. His wife stared after him, then shifted her gaze back to me when he looked at her.

In a tense, but lower-toned voice she said, “Why do you think he had been dead three days?”

I said, “The coroner’s physician says so.”

“He made a mistake.”

“Hardly,” I said. “Marks’s body lay in your house all that time. Don’t try to make us believe you didn’t notice it.”

Nervously she worked her hands together, trying to think of a way out. “I just had the day wrong, is all. George killed him on Friday. In all the excitement, I just—”

Her voice trailed off, when we both unbelievingly shook our heads.

I said, “Why don’t you save time by telling us about it, lady?”

She looked hopelessly from one to the other of us. Finally she said in a whisper, “I didn’t mean to do it. Honest I didn’t.”

We waited.

“It was spur-of-the-moment. When he said—” Her voice failed.

“When he said what?” I prompted.

Drearily, all hope now gone, she said, “He told me he was going back to her.”

“His wife?” Sam asked.

“Yes. That plain little nothing. After all we’d been to each other, he said I was just an interlude. He said he loved her.”

“Then what?” I asked.

“I guess I went mad. The tongs were there and I picked them up. I — afterward I didn’t know what to do. I... I hid him in the closet the first night, until I could think of a way to get rid of him.”

“Go on,” I said.

“Then I was afraid — afraid there’d be an odor. So I put him in the bathtub. I went out and bought cracked ice. Brought it home a bag at a time. I poured it over him.” Her voice sank to a whisper. “Then an idea came to me — a way out. I knew George would come home eventually. Dead drunk. He wouldn’t know what was going on.”

I looked across at George Cooper. He was listening attentively, but he still didn’t seem very disturbed. I thought I detected a faint note of triumph in his expression.

“You knew all along that she did it,” I accused him.

He shook his head, winced again at the motion. “Only suspected. Sergeant, I didn’t know.”

“Then why’d you confess? Why didn’t you just tell us your suspicion?”

“You have to remember I was drunk at the time and not thinking too clearly. All I knew was if Helen lied to me about her and Marks, she could also lie about my having killed him. I don’t know how to investigate murders. I figured the police would, so if I got them involved, maybe the truth would come out. It didn’t occur to me until after I’d confessed that if my wife was innocent, I’d be in a real jam. But by then, of course, it was too late.”

“You were just thinking of yourself!” she screamed at him. “You just wanted to get rid of me!”

An agonized expression crossed his face. Clapping his hands to his ears, he stared at her.

“You’re beginning to get the idea,” he said.

The stories they wouldn’t let me do on TV would fill a book — which, incidentally, has been published and bears the fairly apt title ALFRED HITCHCOCK PRESENTS: STORIES THEY WOULDN’T LET ME DO ON TV. Are you able to guess why the tale which follows was considered too strong for TV viewers? I most assuredly can.

He put the gun back into the bureau drawer and shut the drawer.

No, not that way. Louise wouldn’t suffer that way. She would be dead and it would be over and she wouldn’t suffer. It was very important that this thing have, above all, duration. Duration through imagination. How to prolong the suffering? How, first of all, to bring it about? Well.

The man standing before the bedroom mirror carefully fitted his cuff links together. He paused long enough to hear the children run by swiftly on the street below, outside this warm two-story house; like so many gray mice the children, like so many leaves.

By the sound of the children you knew the calendar day. By their screams you knew what evening it was. You knew it was very late in the year. October. The last day of October, with white bone masks and cut pumpkins and the smell of dropped candle fat.

No. Things hadn’t been right for some time. October didn’t help any. If anything it made things worse. He adjusted his black bow-tie. If this were spring, he nodded slowly, quietly, emotionlessly at his image in the mirror, then there might be a chance. But tonight all the world was burning down into ruin. There was no green of spring, none of the freshness, none of the promise.

There was a soft running in the hall. “That’s Marion,” he told himself. “My little one. All eight quiet years of her. Never a word. Just her luminous gray eyes and her wondering little mouth.” His daughter had been in and out all evening, trying on various masks, asking him which was most terrifying, most horrible. They had both finally decided on the skeleton mask. It was “just awful!” It would “scare the beans” from people!

Again he caught the long look of thought and deliberation he gave himself in the mirror. He had never liked October. Ever since he first lay in the autumn leaves before his grandmother’s house many years ago and heard the wind and saw the empty trees. It had made him cry, without a reason. And a little of that sadness returned each year to him. It always went away with spring.

But it was different tonight. There was a feeling of autumn coming to last a million years.

There would be no spring.

He had been crying quietly all evening. It did not show, not a vestige of it, on his face. It was all somewhere hidden, but it wouldn’t stop.

A rich syrupy smell of candy filled the bustling house. Louise had laid out apples in new skins of caramel, there were vast bowls of punch fresh mixed, stringed apples in each door, scooped, vented pumpkins peering triangularly from each cold window. There was a waiting water tub in the center of the living room, waiting, with a sack of apples nearby, for bobbing to begin. All that was needed was the catalyst, the inpouring of children, to start the apples bobbing, the stringed apples to penduluming in the crowded doors, the candy to vanish, the halls to echo with fright or delight, it was all the same.

Now, the house was silent with preparation. And just a little more than that.

Louise had managed to be in every other room save the room he was in today. It was her very fine way of intimating, Oh look, Mich, see how busy I am! So busy that when you walk into a room I’m in there’s always something I need to do in another room! Just see how I dash about!

For a while he had played a little game with her, a nasty childish game. When she was in the kitchen then he came to the kitchen, saying, “I need a glass of water.” After a moment, he standing, drinking water, she like a crystal witch over the caramel brew bubbling like a prehistoric mudpot on the stove, she said, “Oh, I must light the window pumpkins!” and she rushed to the living room to make the pumpkins smile with light. He came after her, smiling, “I must get my pipe.” “Oh, the cider!” she had cried, running to the dining room. “I’ll check the cider,” he had said. But when he tried following she ran to the bathroom and locked the door.

He stood outside the bath door, laughing strangely and senselessly, his pipe gone cold in his mouth, and then, tired of the game, but stubborn, he waited another five minutes. There was not a sound from the bath. And lest she enjoy in any way knowing that he waited outside, irritated, he suddenly jerked about and walked upstairs, whistling merrily.

At the top of the stairs he had waited. Finally he had heard the bath door unlatch and she had come out and life below stairs had resumed, as life in a jungle must resume once a terror has passed on away and the antelope return to their spring.

Now, as he finished his bow-tie and put on his dark coat there was a mouse-rustle in the hall. Marion appeared in the door, all skeletonous in her disguise.

“How do I look, Papa?”

“Fine!”

From under the mask, blond hair showed. From the skull sockets, small blue eyes smiled. He sighed. Marion and Louise, the two silent denouncers of his virility, his dark power. What alchemy had there been in Louise that took the dark of a dark man and bleached and bleached the dark brown eyes and black black hair and washed and bleached the ingrown baby all during the period before birth until the child was born, Marion, blond, blue-eyed, ruddy-cheeked? Sometimes he suspected that Louise had conceived the child as an idea, completely asexual, an immaculate conception of contemptuous mind and cell. As a firm rebuke to him she had produced a child in her own image, and, to top it, she had somehow fixed the doctor so he shook his head and said, “Sorry, Mr. Wilder, your wife will never have another child. This is the last one.”

“And I wanted a boy,” Mich had said, eight years ago.

He almost bent to take hold of Marion now, in her skull mask. He felt an inexplicable rush of pity for her, because she had never had a father’s love, only the crushing, holding love of a loveless mother. But most of all he pitied himself, that somehow he had not made the most of a bad birth, enjoyed his daughter for herself, regardless of her not being dark and a son and like himself. Somewhere he had missed out. Other things being equal, he would have loved the child. But Louise hadn’t wanted a child, anyway, in the first place. She had been frightened of the idea of birth. He had forced the child on her, and from that night, all through the year until the agony of the birth itself, Louise had lived in another part of the house. She had expected to die with the forced child. It had been very easy for Louise to hate this husband who so wanted a son that he gave his only wife over to the mortuary.

But — Louise had lived. And in triumph! Her eyes the day he came to the hospital were cold. I’m alive, they said. And I have a blond daughter! Just look! And when he had put out a hand to touch, the mother had turned away to conspire with her new pink daughter-child — away from that dark forcing murderer. It had all been so beautifully ironic His selfishness deserved it.

But now it was October again. There had been other Octobers and when he thought of the long winter he had been filled with horror year after year to think of the endless months mortared into the house by an insane fall of snow, trapped with a woman and a child, neither of whom loved him, for months on end. During the eight years there had been respites. In spring and summer you got out, walked, picnicked; these were desperate solutions to the desperate problem of a hated man.

But, in winter, the hikes and picnics and escapes fell away with the leaves. Life, like a tree, stood empty, the fruit picked, the sap run to earth. Yes, you invited people in, but people were hard to get in winter with blizzards and all. Once he had been clever enough to save for a Florida trip. They had gone south. He had walked in the open.

But now, the eighth winter coming, he knew things were finally at an end. He simply could not wear this one through. There was an acid walled off in him that slowly had eaten through tissue and tissue over the years, and now, tonight, it would reach the wild explosive in him and all would be over!

There was a mad ringing of the bell below. In the hall, Louise went to see. Marion, without a word, ran down to greet the first arrivals. There were shouts and hilarity.

He walked to the top of the stairs.

Louise was below, taking wraps. She was tall and slender and blond to the point of whiteness, laughing down upon the new children.

He hesitated. What was all this? The years? The boredom of living? Where had it gone wrong? Certainly not with the birth of the child alone. But it had been a symbol of all their tensions, he imagined. His jealousies and his business failures and all the rotten rest of it. Why didn’t he just turn, pack a suitcase and leave? No. Not without hurting Louise as much as she had hurt him. It was simple as that. Divorce wouldn’t hurt her at all. It would simply be an end to numb indecision. If he thought divorce would give her pleasure in any way he would stay married the rest of his life to her, for damned spite. No, he must hurt her. Figure some way, perhaps, to take Marion away from her, legally. Yes. That was it. That would hurt most of all. To take Marion away.

“Hello down there!” He descended the stairs, beaming.

Louise didn’t look up.

“Hi, Mr. Wilder!”

The children shouted, waved as he came down.

By ten o’clock the doorbell had stopped ringing, the apples were bitten from stringed doors, the pink child faces were wiped dry from the apple bobbing, napkins were smeared with caramel and punch, and he, the husband, with pleasant efficiency had taken over. He took the party right out of Louise’s hands. He ran about talking to the twenty children and the twelve parents who had come and were happy with the special spiked cider he had fixed them. He supervised PIN THE TAIL ON THE DONKEY, SPIN THE BOTTLE, MUSICAL CHAIRS and all the rest, midst fits of shouting laughter. Then, in the triangular-eyed pumpkin shine, all house lights out, he cried, “Hush! Follow me!” he said, tiptoeing toward the cellar.

The parents, on the outer periphery of the costumed riot, commented to each other, nodding at the clever husband, speaking to the lucky wife. How well he got on with children, they said.

The children crowded after the husband, squealing.

“The cellar!” he cried. “The tomb of the witch!”

More squealing. He made a mock shiver. “Abandon hope all ye who enter here!”

The parents chuckled.

One by one the children slid down a slide which Mich had fixed up from lengths of table-section, into the dark cellar. He hissed and shouted ghastly utterances after them. A wonderful wailing filled the dark pumpkin-lighted house. Everybody talked at once. Everybody but Marion. She had gone through all the party with a minimum of sound or talk; it was all inside her, all the excitement and joy. What a little troll, he thought. With a shut mouth and shiny eyes she had watched her own party, like so many serpentines, thrown before her.

Now, the parents. With laughing reluctance they slid down the short incline, uproarious, while little Marion stood by, always wanting to see it all, to be last. Louise went down without his help. He moved to aid her, but she was gone even before he bent.

The upper house was empty and silent in the candleshine.

Marion stood by the slide. “Here we go,” he said, and picked her up.

They sat in a vast circle in the cellar. Warmth came from the distant bulk of the furnace. The chairs stood on a long line down each wall, twenty squealing children, twelve rustling relatives, alternately spaced, with Louise down at the far end. Mich up at this end, near the stairs. He peered but saw nothing. They had all groped to their chairs, catch-as-you-can in the blackness. The entire program from here on was to be enacted in the dark, he as Mr. Interlocutor. There was a child scampering, a smell of damp cement, and the sound of the wind out in the October stars.

“Now!” cried the husband in the dark cellar. “Quiet!”

Everybody settled.

The room was black black. Not a light, not a shine, not a glint of an eye.

A scraping of crockery, a metal rattle.

“The witch is dead,” intoned the husband.

“Eeeeeeeeeeeee,” said the children.

“The witch is dead, she has been killed, and here is the knife she was killed with.”

He handed over the knife. It was passed from hand to hand, down and around the circle, with chuckles and little odd cries and comments from the adults.

“The witch is dead, and this is her head,” whispered the husband, and handed an item to the nearest person.

“Oh, I know how this game is played,” some child cried, happily, in the dark. “He gets some old chicken innards from the icebox and hands them around and says, ‘These are her innards!’ And he makes a clay head and passes it for her head, and passes a soup-bone for her arm. And he takes a marble and says, ‘This is her eye!’ And he takes some com and says, ‘This is her teeth!’ And he takes a sack of plum pudding and gives that and says, ‘This is her stomach!’ I know how this is played!”

“Hush, you’ll spoil everything,” some girl said.

“The witch came to harm, and this is her arm,” said Mich.

“Eeeee!”

The items were passed and passed, like hot potatoes, around the circle. Some children screamed, wouldn’t touch them. Some ran from their chairs to stand in the center of the cellar until the grisly items had passed by them and on to the next child.

“Aw, it’s only chicken insides,” scoffed a boy. “Come back, Helen!”

Shot from hand to hand, with small scream after scream, the items went down the line, down, down, to be followed by another and another.

“The witch cut apart, and this is her heart,” said the husband.

Six or seven items moving at once through the laughing, trembling dark.

Louise spoke up. “Marion, don’t be afraid; it’s only play.”

Marion didn’t say anything.

“Marion?” asked Louise. “Are you afraid?”

Marion didn’t speak.

“She’s all right,” said the husband. “She’s not afraid.”

On and on the passing, the screams, the hilarity.

The autumn wind sighed about the house. And he, the husband, stood at the head of the dark cellar, intoning the words, handing out the items.

“Marion?” asked Louise again, from far across the cellar.

Everybody was talking.

“Marion?” called Louise.

Everybody quieted.

“Marion, answer me, are you afraid?”

Marion didn’t answer.

The husband stood there, at the bottom of the cellar steps.

Louise called, “Marion, are you there?”

No answer. The room was silent.

“Where’s Marion?” called Louise.

“She was here,” said a boy.

“Maybe she’s upstairs.”

“Marion!”

No answer. It was quiet.

Louise cried out, “Marion, Marion!”

“Turn on the lights,” said one of the adults.

The items stopped passing. The children and adults sat with the witch’s items in their hands.

“No.” Louise gasped. There was a scraping of her chair, wildly, in the dark. “No. Don’t turn on the lights, don’t turn on the lights, oh, God, God, God, don’t turn them on, please, please don’t turn on the lights, don’t!” Louise was shrieking now. The entire cellar froze with the scream.

Nobody moved.

Everyone sat in the dark cellar, suspended in the suddenly frozen task of this October game; the wind blew outside, banging the house, the smell of pumpkins and apples filled the room with the smell of the objects in their fingers while one boy cried, “I’ll go upstairs and look!” and he ran upstairs hopefully and out around the house, four times around the house, calling, “Marion, Marion, Marion!” over and over and at last coming slowly down the stairs into the waiting, breathing cellar and saying to the darkness, “I can’t find her.”

Then... some idiot turned on the lights.

An occasional reminder about good manners can be helpful to all. I thus offer this chilling little study wherein a man’s insistence that formality be dropped led to the most dire consequences.

Harvey Wilson was trying his best to be a proper host, but it was difficult to restrict his thoughts to the present, to keep them from exploring the possibilities of the hours ahead. Tonight might very well be the night, he knew. And again, it might not; it might be just like any one of the previous nights when there’d been a fatal hitch at the last moment. All he could do was wait and see — and that was the worst part of all, the waiting.

Harvey’s guest took another sip of his drink and glanced about the tiny living room appreciatively. “Nice place you got here, Harve,” he said. “You say you built it all by yourself? Everything?” He had been drinking steadily ever since he arrived, and his voice was a little blurred.

Harvey nodded. “All except the plumbing, Mr. Lambert. I figured I’d better leave that to an expert.” He smiled at his wife, who sat on the sofa beside Calvin Lambert. “And Doris did some of the inside painting. Picked it up in no time at all.”

Doris crossed her legs and frowned at the wall above Harvey’s head. She was in her late twenties, a doll-faced woman with shoulder-length black hair, exquisite legs, and a lush, provocative body that in another year or two would be overripe. She, too, showed the effects of drinking a great deal, and the dark eyes behind their incredibly long lashes were very bright.

“I only did it because Harvey kept after me so,” she said defensively. “I’m really not the kind of woman who enjoys wielding a paint brush, Mr. Lambert.” She looked at her glass, then held it out toward her husband. “Refill, Harvey. And this time, for God’s sake, put some whiskey in it.”

Harvey rose, took the glass, and glanced at Lambert. “How about you, sir?” he asked. “You about ready for another?”

“Good thought, Harve,” Lambert said. He handed his glass to Harvey and nodded solemnly. “When a night’s as cold as this one, a man needs a little extra anti-freeze.”

“That’s right,” Harvey said, smiling. Lambert was probably a much better looking man at forty than he had been at twenty, Harvey reflected; two decades had touched his temples with just the right amount of gray and had erased all but a few of the acne scars.

“We must apologize for its being so chilly in here,” Doris said. “Everything about this house is too small, even the furnace.” She grimaced at the portable gas heater in the middle of the floor. “We’ve had to help the furnace along with that ever since the cold spell started.”

“Me, I’m quite comfortable,” Lambert said.

Doris would be too, Harvey thought, if she’d only wear something under her dress. But she never did. She never wore anything at all, winter or summer, but dresses and rolled stockings and high-heeled pumps.

“Two drinks coming right up,” Harvey said. “You want yours the same way, Mr. Lambert?”

“Yes,” Lambert said. “And listen here, Harve. I wish you’d call me Cal. It feels pretty awkward to drink a man’s liquor and enjoy his hospitality, and have him call you Mr. Lambert that way.” He turned to smile at Doris. “Why don’t you both call me Cal? Then it’ll be just Cal and Harve and Doris. Okay?”

Doris recrossed her legs — carelessly, the way she always did it. “That’ll be fine,” she said.

“Darn right,” Lambert said. “I don’t hold with that old theory that a man has to call another man ‘mister’ and say ‘sir’ to him and all that, just because the other man happens to be his boss. Isn’t that the way you look at it — Doris?”

“Yes,” Doris said. She glanced up at her husband. “You’ll never get those drinks made standing there like that.”

Harvey turned, pushed open the kitchen door and let it swing shut behind him. He heard the muted creak of a spring in the sofa, and a repressed giggle from Doris, and then nothing at all. He moved to the drainboard, where the whiskey and mixer were laid out.

The clock above the sink said twenty minutes past nine. Harvey was due on his job at midnight, and from then until his mid-morning lunch hour at four, he would have nothing to do but take an occasional look at the dials and gauges on the control panel in the sub-basement of Cal Lambert’s sheet-plastics factory just this side of town. He didn’t like the job, but it gave him time to study, and the pay was as good as a man with his lack of training could make anywhere else. Tonight, he looked forward to the cozy warmth of his personal cubbyhole and his stack of technical magazines.

And after all, tonight might be the night it happened.

He took his time making the drinks, humming softly to himself as he worked. When he finished with them, he took one in each hand and walked to the window that looked across the dark lot separating his house from Cal Lambert’s. Lambert, a bachelor, had moved in only three weeks ago; before that the big house had stood vacant for almost half a year. These were the only two homes in the area, because most people preferred to live either in Lairdsville, where the Lambert factory was, or out in the country proper. Harvey studied the dark outline of Lambert’s house for a long moment; then he walked back to the swinging door, pushed it open with his shoulder, and stepped into the living room.

Doris was sitting very close to Lambert now and the hem of her skirt was up above her knees. She brushed the skirt down casually and held out her hand for her drink.

“Harvey,” she said, “I thought you’d decided to distill the stuff yourself.” There was a deep flush in her cheeks and her full lips had the pouty, slightly swollen look they’d had when she and Harvey were first married and made love so violently.

Harvey handed her one of the glasses and gave the other to Lambert. “I might have to distill some, at that,” he said. “We’re running pretty low.”

“I thought I told you to bring a couple of bottles home with you this morning,” Doris said.

“You did,” Harvey said. “I forgot. Just didn’t think about it.”

“Naturally,” Doris said.

“I didn’t know we were going to have company,” Harvey said, smiling apologetically at Lambert. “I’ll take a quick run into town and pick some up.”

Lambert’s face was almost expressionless. “I’d go over to my place for some,” he said. “But I’m fresh out. A bottle or so of beer, maybe, and that’s all.”

“It’ll only take a few minutes,” Doris said. “Harvey doesn’t mind at all.”

Lambert made a move to rise, with obviously no intention of completing it. “I’ll go with you, Harve,” he said.

“Stay where you are, Mr. Lambert,” Harvey said. “I—”

“Cal,” Lambert said. “Call me Cal, doggonit, Harve.”

“Sure, Cal. Now you stay put. It doesn’t take two full-grown men to carry a couple of little bottles.”

“Well,” Doris said, “I hope you two boys can come to some kind of an agreement. We’re going to be ready for another one pretty soon.”

Harvey laughed. “You folks listen to some records or something. I’ll be right back.” He walked to the hat tree beside the front door and took down his overcoat. There was a mirror behind the hat tree, and as Harvey buttoned up his coat he could see Cal Lambert turn to smile broadly at Doris and then look away again, lips pursed, as if he were about to whistle.

The drive to Lairdsville took less than ten minutes. Harvey parked in front of Teddy’s Taproom and went inside. There were only two men at the bar, Bill Wirt and Gus Bialis, and both of them insulted Harvey loudly and affectionately as he approached them. They were both lifelong friends of his, and, before his marriage to Doris four years ago, his constant drinking companions. At a table near the front end of the bar sat George Helm, another of Harvey’s friends, but one who didn’t drink at all.

“I’ll need a couple fifths of the usual, Ted,” Harvey said to the bartender. “And you’d better give me a couple bottles of soda to help out with the weight.”

“Check,” the bartender said, moving toward the shelves where he kept his package goods. “If you want to spoil good liquor with soda, Harvey, it’s no skin off mine.”

“Well, what do you know,” Bill Wirt said. “You and the missus must be figuring on throwing a real one, Harvey. Something special happen?”

“No,” Harvey said. “Cal Lambert dropped over. Just a neighborly visit, I guess you’d say.”

Bill looked knowingly at Gus Bialis and then back at Harvey. “You mean to say, Harvey, you left your wife there with Lambert while you traipsed off down here for liquor? Is that what you done?” He shook his head wonderingly. “Man, you sure got a world of trust in human nature. Don’t it worry you — them two being out there all alone like that?”

Harvey smiled. “Not so you could notice it, Bill.”

“Well, like I said, you sure got a lot of trust in human nature.”

“Yes,” Gus Bialis said. “He sure’n hell has, hasn’t he? Of course, that little lady of his is straighter’n a string, and we all know it — but what’s the use of tempting fate, I always say.”

“Right, Gus!” Bill said. “You said it right, by God!”

Harvey grinned, paid for his whiskey and mixer, and went back outside. George Helm was waiting for him just outside the doorway.

“I didn’t see you step out,” Harvey said. “How’ve you been, George?”

“All right,” George shrugged, not meeting Harvey’s eyes. He was somewhere in his early fifties, a short, heavy-set, balding man who made a living buying and selling second-hand farm equipment. “I kind of wanted to talk to you private, Harvey,” he said.

Harvey shifted the bottles to his other arm and nodded. “What is it, George?”

George slapped his mittened hands together and hunched his shoulders against the bitter slice of the wind. “Cold, ain’t it?”

“Sure is,” Harvey said. “What was it you wanted, George?”

“Well,” George said hesitantly, “I guess it really ain’t none of my business, when you get right down to it...” He paused. “I guess you know I get around these parts a good bit, Harvey. My type business keeps a man on the move all the time. He has to talk with a lot of people, and sometimes he hears a thing or two. You know how it is. Like maybe he hears that some man’s wife is sort of playing around with somebody else. You know what I mean, Harvey?”

“Sure, George,” Harvey said a little impatiently. “But—”

“Now listen a minute. This here’s a kind of ticklish thing I want to say, Harvey. But supposing you was to find out something like I just said? Would you tell the woman’s husband what she was up to? I mean, don’t you think a man in that position should know what’s going on?”

Harvey frowned. “Well... Well, hell, George, it’s hard to say.”

“Yes, but put yourself in his place. If you was him, wouldn’t you want to know?”

Harvey took a tentative step toward his automobile, then paused. “I guess so, George,” he said. “But no two men feel the same way. Some of them would be better off if they never found out.”

“Yes,” George persisted, “but don’t you think a man like me, when he knows something’s going on, has a duty?”

Harvey sighed and took another step towards his automobile. “That’s something you’ll have to decide for yourself, George. With things like that, nobody else can make up your mind for you.”

George had moved along with him, and now he studied Harvey’s face carefully. “Supposing you put yourself in this man’s position for a minute, Harvey,” he said. “Just say you was him. If you found out your wife had been fooling around, what would you do?”

Harvey opened the car door slowly, put the bottles on the back seat, and got behind the wheel. He started to close the door, but George caught it and held it open.

“Well?” George said. “You ain’t answered my question, Harvey. If you was this husband, and knew your wife was fooling around, what would you do?”

Harvey took a deep breath. “I’d try to find out what was to blame, George,” he said. “That’s the first thing I’d do. Chances are, it’d turn out to be me.”

George’s mouth sagged open. “You?”

“That’s right,” Harvey said. “It’s always easy to blame the woman in a case like that, George. Me, I’d ask myself what I might have done to make her do what she did. I’d figure there must be something wrong with me — some lack, maybe, or something I was doing wrong that I didn’t know about.” He turned on the motor and sat listening to it, his eyes thoughtful. “And then I guess I’d sit down with her and have a long talk, George. I’d try to find out how I was failing her, and then I’d do my damnedest to make it up to her.”

George swallowed twice and shook his head incredulously. “You... you wouldn’t do anything to her? You wouldn’t take a whip to her or anything like that? You wouldn’t even do anything to the man?”

“No, George,” Harvey said quietly. “I’d know it was my fault to begin with. Why should I try to punish someone else for something I’d caused myself?”

“Lord,” George whispered. “I can’t hardly believe what I hear. I’ll just be goddamned.”

Harvey smiled. “Got to be getting home, George,” he said and shut the door.

The worker of magic draws your attention to one hand, so he can do his foul trickery with the other. This, technically, is known as misdirection and is the greatest thing from a magician’s standpoint since the invention of the rabbit.

They lashed the heavy braided cord about Ferlini’s wrists and knotted it tightly. Of the two men the smaller was the most belligerent; he yanked and tugged until the cord seemed to bite through flesh. Grunting, they put the leg irons on his ankles, slamming the thick metal locks shut and testing their security. Finally, panting with their exertions, they stood over their victim and seemed smugly satisfied with his helplessness.

Then the woman was putting the screen in front of Ferlini’s bound body. In less than a minute, it was thrown aside by Ferlini himself, the cord and the irons upraised triumphantly in his outstretched hands.

The audience of the small supper club gasped, and then exploded into tumultuous applause. Ferlini glowed at the sound of it. He was fair-skinned, almost albino, even the desert sunshine failed to alter his color, but an audience’s approbation could tint his cheeks with the red flush of gratified vanity.

The two volunteers from the audience, shaking their heads and grinning sheepishly, returned to their tables and their jeering companions, and the six-piece band swung into a traveling theme. Wanda, Ferlini’s wife and professional partner, moved mechanically across the floor to pick up the screen and carry it backstage. There were some catcalls and a smattering of light applause, but she knew it was only in appreciation of her bare-legged costume. She was over forty, and her face was dependent on increasing layers of theatrical makeup for its passable beauty, but her legs were still long, lithe, and without blemish.

On her way to the dressing room, Baggett stepped in front of her and displayed his soulful eyes. “Let me help,” he said, putting his hand on the screen.

“It’s all right,” Wanda whispered. “You better not, Tommy.”

“They liked him tonight, didn’t they?”

She frowned, putting cracks in the thick makeup. “It’s that kind of crowd.” She shrugged. “They’ll like you, too.”

“Thanks,” Baggett, an aging crooner, said dryly.

“No, I didn’t mean it that way.” She placed the screen against a concrete wall and swayed toward him, her eyes dreamy. “You know what I think of you. Tommy. Your singing, I mean.”

“Is that all you mean?”

“I better go,” Wanda said.

When she entered the dressing room, she found her husband in a good mood, and it was the mood she liked least. He was staring into the mirror and rubbing his shoulders vigorously with a towel, his face split into a wide smile that showed every one of his large, strong teeth. “Yeah, it was good tonight, it was good,” he said happily. “I could have gotten out of steel boxes tonight, that’s how I felt. You see that little guy?” He guffawed and slammed the dressing table with his palm. “Little fella thought he was gonna fix me. You see how tight he worked the rope? I tell you, the little guys, they’re the worst. It’s a pleasure to fool ’em.”

He swung around and looked at his wife, who was staring at nothing. He made fists of his big hands and flexed his exaggerated muscles, swelling out his chest to display the incredible expansion that was so important to his art. “Look at that, hah, will you look at that? You think anybody ever take me for forty-six? What do you say?”

“You’re a Greek god,” Wanda said bitterly. “Only speaking of Greeks, we’re invited out to dinner tonight. Roscoe’s treat.”

“Ah, that Phil, he spoils my appetite,” Ferlini said, still with a grin. “You hear him talk, the escape business is dead. He should have seen that crowd tonight, that’s all I say. He’d know different.”

“He booked you in this job, didn’t he? He ought to know if it’s dead or not.” She yawned, and began to change into street clothes. Then she remembered something, and came to her husband’s dressing table, wiping at her makeup. “Listen, when we see Phil tonight, don’t start up again about that water business, huh? I’m sick of hearing about that.”

“Aah,” Ferlini said, waving his hand. “You’re gettin’ old, Wanda, that’s your trouble.”

“Look who’s talking! You’re no chicken either, Joe, and don’t forget it!”

He turned to look at her, grinning shrewdly. “I count ten new wrinkles on you since last week, sugar. You take a good look at yourself? Go on, take a look, you got a mirror.”

“Aw, go to hell.”

“Go on, look!” Ferlini shouted suddenly. Then his muscular arm whipped out and caught her wrist. He bent her down toward the lighted mirror on his table, forcing her to face it. She looked up at her reflection, at the streaked orange makeup on her forehead and chin, at the age lines around her mouth, the puffy flesh beneath her eyes. She turned her head aside, and Ferlini’s grip tightened cruelly.

“Stop it, Joel For God’s sake!”

“Who you callin’ an old man, hah? I’m younger’n you, understand, on account of I keep in shape! Don’t call me no old man, you hear me?”

“All right, all right!”

He released her, with a growl of disgust. His good mood was dissipated. Wanda, tears blurring her sight, went to the other side of the room and completed dressing.

“Not everybody thinks I’m so old,” she whispered. “Not everybody, Joe.”

“Shut up and get dressed. We’re supposed to go to dinner, let’s go to dinner. Besides,” he said, standing up and slapping his flat stomach, “I want to talk to Roscoe about something. About the water trick.”

Wanda said nothing.

Don’t laugh — or smile ambiguously — when a sensitive person is present. He may very well be a paranoiac Perchance he may even be given to homicide — a homicide that may be your very own.

He hated the manager most.

Last night he had come to that realization. This morning, as he entered the department store with the Luger tucked into the waistband of his trousers, he allowed his hatred for the manager to swell up blackly until it smothered all the other hatreds he felt. The manager knew; of that he was certain. And it was his knowledge, this smirking sneering patronizing knowledge which fed the hatred, nurtured it, caused it to rise like dark yeast, bubbling, boiling.

The Luger was a firm metal reassurance against his belly.

The gun had been given to him in the good days, in Vienna, by an admirer. In the good days, there had been many admirers, and many gifts. He could remember the good days. The good days would sometimes come back to him with fiercely sweet nostalgia, engulfing him in waves and waves of painful memories. He could remember the lights, and the applause, and...

“Good morning, Nick.”

The voice, the hated voice.

He stopped abruptly. “Good morning, Mr. Atkins,” he said.

Atkins was smiling. The smile was a thin curl on his narrow face, a thin bloodless curl beneath the ridiculously tenuous mustache on the cleaving edge of the hatchet face. The manager’s hair was black, artfully combed to conceal a balding patch. He wore a gray pin-stripe suit. Like a caricature of all store managers everywhere, he wore a carnation in his buttonhole. He continued smiling. The smile was infuriating.

“Ready for the last act?” he asked.

“Yes, Mr. Atkins.”

“It is the last act, isn’t it, Nick?” Atkins asked, smiling. “Final curtain comes down today, doesn’t it? All over after today. Everything reverts back to normal after today.”

“Yes, Mr. Atkins,” he said. “Today is the last act.”

“But no curtain calls, eh, Nick?”

His name was not Nick. His name was Randolph Blair, a name that had blazed across the theater marquees of four continents. Atkins knew this, and had probably known it the day he’d hired him. He knew it, and so the “Nick” was an additional barb, a reminder of his current status, a sledgehammer subtlety that shouted, “Lo, how the mighty have fallen!”

“My name is not Nick,” he said flatly.

Atkins snapped his fingers. “That’s right, isn’t it? I keep forgetting. What is it again? Randolph Something? Clair? Flair? Shmair? What is your name, Nick?”

“My name is Randolph Blair,” he said. He fancied he said it with great dignity. He fancied he said it the way Hamlet would have announced that he was Prince of Denmark. He could remember the good days when the name Randolph Blair was the magic key to a thousand cities. He could remember hotel clerks with fluttering hands, maître d’s hovering, young girls pulling at his clothing, even telephone operators suddenly growing respectful when they heard the name. Randolph Blair. In his mind, the name was spelled in lights. Randolph Blair. The lights suddenly flickered, and then dimmed. He felt the steel outline of the Luger against his belly. He smiled thinly.

“You know my name, don’t you, Mr. Atkins?”

“Yes,” Atkins said. “I know your name. I hear it sometimes.”

His interest was suddenly piqued. “Do you?” he asked.

“Yes. I hear people ask, every now and then, ‘Say, whatever happened to Randolph Blair?’ I know your name.”

He felt Atkins’ dart pierce his throat, felt the poison spread into his bloodstream. Whatever happened to Randolph Blair? A comedian had used the line on television not two weeks before, bringing down the house. Randolph Blair, the ever-popular Randolph Blair. A nothing now, a nobody, a joke for a television comic. A forgotten name, a forgotten face. But Atkins would remember. For eternity he would remember Randolph Blair’s name and the face and terrible power.

“Don’t...” he started, and then stopped abruptly.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t... don’t push me too far, Mr. Atkins.”

“Push you, Nick?” Atkins asked innocently.

“Stop that ‘Nick’ business!”

“Excuse me, Mr. Blair,” Atkins said. “Excuse me. I forgot who I was talking to. I thought I was talking to an old drunk who’d managed to land himself a temporary job...”

“Stop it!”

“... for a few weeks. I forgot I was talking to Randolph Blair, the Randolph Blair, the biggest lush in...”

“I’m not a drunk!” he shouted.

“You’re a drunk, all right,” Atkins said. “Don’t tell me about drunks. My father was one. A falling-down drunk. A screaming, hysterical drunk. I grew up with it, Nick. I watched the old man fight his imaginary monsters, killing my mother inch by inch. So don’t tell me about drunks. Even if the newspapers hadn’t announced your drunkenness to the world. I’d have spotted you as being a lush.”

“Why’d you hire me?” he asked.

“There was a job to be filled, and I thought you could fill it.”

“You hired me so you could needle me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Atkins said.

“You made a mistake. You’re needling the wrong person.”

“Am I?” Atkins asked blandly. “Are you one of these tough drunks? Aggressive? My father was a tough drunk in the beginning. He could lick any man in the house. The only thing he couldn’t lick was the bottle. When things began crawling out of the walls, he wasn’t so tough. He was a screaming, crying baby then, running to my mother’s arms. Are you a tough drunk, Nick? Are you?”

“I’m not a drunk!” he said. “I haven’t touched a drop since I got this job. You know that!”

“Why? Afraid it would hurt your performance?” Atkins laughed harshly. “That never seemed to bother you in the old days.”

“Things are different,” he said. “I want... I want to make a comeback. I... I took this job because... I wanted the feel again, the feel of working. You shouldn’t needle me. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Me? Needle you? Now, Nick, Nick, don’t be silly. I gave you the job, didn’t I? Out of all the other applicants, I chose you. So why should I needle you? That’s silly, Nick.”

“I’ve done a good job,” he said, hoping Atkins would say the right thing, the right word, wanting him to say the words that would crush the hatred. “You know I’ve done a good job.”

“Have you?” Atkins asked. “I think you’ve done a lousy job, Nick. As a matter of fact, I think you always did a lousy job. I think you were one of the worst actors who ever crossed a stage.”

And in that moment, Atkins signed his own death warrant.

Here we have an attempt to solve a marital problem somewhat differently, by means of poison — as sophisticated and swift a solution, incidentally, as any that has been put forward up to this time. Of course, a question arises: Who shall take the poison? The interesting thing is it doesn’t much matter — just as long as somebody does.

“Darling,” Sherry said, “I’m so glad you’re behaving like a civilized being.”

“Oh, I’m a great believer in civilized beings,” I said. “In my opinion, they are essential to civilization.”

“Nevertheless,” she said, “it is absolutely exceptional of you to suggest that the three of us get together and talk things out quietly and courteously. Not,” she added, “that it will change anything in the end.”

“What do you mean, not that it will change anything?”

“I mean that I am quite determined to leave you, of course. Surely you understand that.”

“I understand that it’s your intention, but I am hoping to change your mind.”

“Well, it’s only fair to give you a chance, which I am willing to do, but I assure you that it’s impossible. I am in love with Dennis and am going to marry him, and that’s all there is to it. I’m truly sorry, darling, but it’s necessary to my happiness.”

“This means, I take it, that you are consequently no longer in love with me. Is that true?”

“Not at all. Please don’t be absurd. I love you very much, as you very well know, but in a less exciting way. I am madly and deliriously and irresistibly in love with Dennis.”

“Once you were madly and deliriously and irresistibly in love with me. At least you said you were.”

“So I was, but now the way I am in love with you is unfortunately changed. It’s sad, isn’t it, the way things change?”

I looked at her with a great aching in my heart, for however sadly and unfortunately her way of loving me had changed, my way of loving her had not changed at all. So bright and fair and incredibly lovely, I also saw that she was wearing a soft white gown that achieved a perfect balance of exposure and suggestion.

“Will you have a martini?” I said.

“When Dennis gets here, we will have one together. It will make everyone feel relaxed and comfortable, don’t you think? Martinis are quite good for that.”

“I thought we might just have one beforehand. We can have another later, of course.”

“Well, I’m not averse to that, but there’s the doorbell now, if I’m not mistaken, and it’s surely Dennis.”

She was right about its being the doorbell. She was almost certainly right, too, about its being Dennis. I was compelled to accept this reluctantly.

“You had better let him in,” I said.

She went out into the hall and opened the front door, and it was Dennis outside. He came into the hall, and Sherry put her arms around his neck and kissed him. It was nothing new for her to kiss various men, but this kiss was different and plainly special. It was ardent, to say the least, and it lasted for quite a long time. From my position in the living room, I could see it clearly, but I quit looking at it before it was finished, and started mixing martinis, and I was still mixing the martinis when Sherry and Dennis came in.

“Well, you two,” Sherry said, “here we are.”

“That’s true,” I said. “We’re here, all right.”

“This is Dennis, Sherm,” Sherry said. “Dennis, this is Sherm.”

“Glad to meet you, Sherm,” Dennis said.

He was not as tall as I, nor quite so heavy, but I had to admit that he looked like he was probably in better condition. He had short blond hair and a face like the guy who plays juvenile leads until he’s thirty, and he apparently felt that he was playing the lead in this particular turkey. Which he was, even though I didn’t like to admit it. I put down the shaker of martinis and shook his hand.

“His name is actually Sherman,” Sherry said, “but I call him Sherm.”

“Sometimes we got real intimate,” I said.

“This is exceedingly decent of you, Sherm,” Dennis said.

“Civilized,” I said. “I’m being civilized, which makes everything much more comfortable for everyone. Will you have a martini?”

“Thanks. I don’t mind if I do.”

I poured the martinis, and they sat on the sofa and held hands. When I served the martinis, he took his in his left hand, and she took hers in her right hand, and this made it possible for her left hand and his right hand to go on holding each other. As for me, I was in a position to hold my martini in either hand or both, as the notion struck me.

“I suppose,” I said, “that we might as well get it over with.”

“Sorry, Sherm,” Dennis said, “but I suppose we had.” He looked at me with a man-to-man expression.

“Well,” I said, “as I understand it, you want something of mine, and I naturally want to keep what I have, and this poses a problem.”

“Problem?” he said. “I don’t see that there’s any particular problem.”

“Neither do I,” Sherry said. “No problem at all. You and I will simply get divorced, Sherm, and you and I will simply get married, Dennis, and that’s all there is to it.”

“As I see it,” Dennis said, “that’s all.”

“As I see it,” I said, “not quite. I’m willing to be civilized and congenial, which is one thing, but I’m not willing to surrender supinely, which is another. I must insist on a fair chance in this affair, but at the same time I want to be agreeable, which is evident, and so I have thought of a way in which everything can be settled amicably. Would you like to hear it?”

“I don’t think so,” Dennis said. “I don’t think I care to hear it at all.”

“Oh, let’s hear it, Dennis,” Sherry said. “It can’t do any harm to hear it.”

“All right,” Dennis said. “I suppose it’s only fair.”

“Good,” I said. “You two just continue to sit here and hold hands for a minute, and I’ll be right back.”

Crossing the room to a liquor cabinet, I got three small bottles filled with red port and returned. I lined the bottles up on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

“Whatever are they?” Sherry said.

“Little bottles of port wine,” I said. “I prepared them myself earlier today.”

“It seems perfectly ridiculous to me. Whatever for?”

“Well, they are part of my plan to settle our problem amicably. One of these bottles is slightly different from the other two, you see. Two of them are filled with plain port, as I said, but the other one contains also enough poison to curl your toes in a minute. It’s my plan that one of us shall drink the poisoned port and curl his toes and cease forthwith to be a problem to the other two.”

“Sherm,” Sherry said, “you’ve always had a perverted sense of humor, and it’s obviously time you were told about it.”

“It’s a reasonable chance for everyone to get everything or nothing,” I said. “It’s civilized, that’s what it is. Besides being civilized, it’s sophisticated. It’s quite appropriate and acceptable for three civilized sophisticates like us.”

“Now that you’ve explained it,” Sherry said, “I believe you’re right. It’s certainly about as civilized and sophisticated as it could possibly be.”

For the first time since sitting down, she disengaged her held hand and put her chin in it. Before putting her chin in the hand, she put her elbow on her knee. She sat staring at the little bottles of port, plainly intrigued by the prospect of two amicable men risking having their toes curled on the alternate chance of possessing her if the port didn’t happen to be spiked.

“Look here,” Dennis said. “There are three bottles there. Do you seriously expect Sherry to participate in this fantastic business?”

“It’s necessary,” I said, “in order to give all alternatives a chance. If I get the poisoned port, you get Sherry. If you get the poisoned port, I get Sherry. If she gets the poisoned port, neither of us gets her. This thing must be done properly and thoroughly, if at all, and I’m sure Sherry will agree.”

“I do agree,” Sherry said. “It’s only fair that I participate.”

“I absolutely forbid it,” Dennis said.

“Don’t be presumptuous, darling,” Sherry said. “You are hardly in a position to forbid anything.”

“You’ll have to concede that, Dennis,” I said. “None of us is presently qualified to dictate to either of the others. The most you can do is to decline to participate yourself.”

Sherry turned her head and looked at Dennis with wide eyes. It was apparent that such a reluctance on the part of Dennis had not seriously occurred to her before.

“Yes, Dennis,” she said, “if you don’t feel like taking a simple chance for my sake, you are certainly under no compulsion.”

“It’s not merely the chance,” Dennis said. “Think of the complications. Suppose we all take a bottle and gulp it down. One of us gets the poison and dies. You can surely see that the other two would be all mucked up with the police over it.”

“That’s true,” I said. “I’ve anticipated that, and have thought of a way to avoid it. We do not drink the port here. Each of us takes a bottle when we separate. Each drinks the port when he is alone, and the two survivors meet tomorrow afternoon at, say, three o’clock in the cocktail lounge of the Café Picardy. This, to my way of thinking, besides solving the problem of the police, introduces an appealing element of romance, to say nothing of suspense. Who will be the two? Who will meet at the Picardy tomorrow?”

Dennis looked at me bitterly. “I hope to hell it isn’t you and I,” he said bitterly.

“Does that mean you agree to do it?”

“I suppose so. I can see that Sherry is all for it.”

“I am,” Sherry said. “I surely am. Sherm, this last part is absolute genius. Although I was inclined at one time to exaggerate your virtues, I see now that in certain respects I didn’t give you the credit you deserved. In this matter, I can think of only one thing you neglected to do which is rather disappointing.”

“Yes? What’s that?”

“You should have used sherry instead of port.”

“Oh. Sherry for Sherry. I did miss a nice touch there, didn’t I? I’m afraid, however, that it’s too late now to change.”

“Yes. Disappointing as it is, we’ll have to go along with port.”

“Wait a minute,” Dennis said. “Do you know which bottle has the poison?”

“No,” I said. “The bottles are identical, and I messed them around with my eyes closed. At any rate, you and Sherry may choose the bottles you want, and I’ll take the one that’s left. Is that acceptable?”

“It’s perfectly acceptable,” Sherry said, “and I don’t think it was quite nice of you, Dennis, to imply that Sherm might cheat in an affair of honor of this sort. I suggest now that we all have another martini and be compatible.”

We had the martinis compatibly, and afterward I went downtown to a hotel and took a room. In the room, after putting on a pair of pajamas I was willing to be caught dead in, I drank the port and lay down on the bed.

Pity the poor detective. He must detect, and having detected, like all true artists, he dare not be satisfied. Catching someone for a murder is not enough; this someone must also be guilty of the crime.

Detective Abraham Levine of Brooklyn’s Forty-Third Precinct chewed on his pencil and glowered at the report he’d just written. He didn’t like it, he didn’t like it at all. It just didn’t feel right, and the more he thought about it the stronger the feeling became.

Levine was a short and stocky man, baggily-dressed from plain pipe racks. His face was sensitive, topped by salt-and-pepper gray hair chopped short in a military crewcut. At fifty-three, he had twenty-four years of duty on the police force, and was halfway through the heart-attack age range, a fact that had been bothering him for some time now. Every time he was reminded of death, he thought worriedly about the aging heart pumping away inside his chest.

And in his job, the reminders of death came often. Natural death, accidental death, and violent death.

This one was a violent death, and to Levine it felt wrong somewhere. He and his partner, Jack Crawley, had taken the call just after lunch. It was from one of the patrolmen in Prospect Park, a patrolman named Tanner. A man giving his name as Larry Perkins had walked up to Tanner in the park and announced that he had just poisoned his best friend. Tanner went with him, found a dead body in the apartment Perkins had led him to, and called in. Levine and Crawley, having just walked into the station after lunch, were given the call. They turned around and walked back out again.

Crawley drove their car, an unmarked ’56 Chevy, while Levine sat beside him and worried about death. At least this would be one of the neat ones. No knives or bombs or broken beer bottles. Just poison, that was all. The victim would look as though he were sleeping, unless it had been one of those poisons causing muscle spasms before death. But it would still be neater than a knife or a bomb or a broken beer bottle, and the victim wouldn’t look quite so completely dead.

Crawley drove leisurely, without the siren. He was a big man in his forties, somewhat overweight, square-faced and heavy jowled, and he looked meaner than he actually was. The Chevy tooled up Eighth Avenue, the late spring sun shining on its hood. They were headed for an address on Garfield Place, the block between Eighth Avenue and Prospect Park West. They had to circle the block, because Garfield was a one-way street. That particular block on Garfield Place is a double row of chipped brownstones, the street running down between two rows of high stone stoops, the buildings cut and chopped inside into thousands of apartments, crannies and cubbyholes, niches and box-like caves, where the subway riders sleep at night. The subway to Manhattan is six blocks away, up at Grand Army Plaza, across the way from the main library.

At one p.m. on this Wednesday in late May, the sidewalks were deserted, the buildings had the look of long abandoned dwellings. Only the cars parked along the left side of the street indicated present occupancy.

The number they wanted was in the middle of the block, on the right-hand side. There was no parking allowed on that side, so there was room directly in front of the address for Crawley to stop the Chevy. He flipped the sun visor down, with the official business card showing through the windshield, and followed Levine across the sidewalk and down the two steps to the basement door, under the stoop. The door was propped open with a battered garbage can. Levine and Crawley walked inside. It was dim in there, after the bright sunlight, and it took Levine’s eyes a few seconds to get used to the change. Then he made out the figures of two men standing at the other end of the hallway, in front of a closed door. One was the patrolman, Tanner, young, just over six foot, with a square and impersonal face. The other was Larry Perkins.

Levine and Crawley moved down the hallway to the two men waiting for them. In the seven years they had been partners, they had established a division of labor that satisfied them both. Crawley asked the questions, and Levine listened to the answers. Now, Crawley introduced himself to Tanner, who said, “This is Larry Perkins of 294 Fourth Street.”

“Body in there?” asked Crawley, pointing at the closed door.

“Yes, sir,” said Tanner.

“Let’s go inside,” said Crawley. “You keep an eye on the pigeon. See he doesn’t fly away.”

“I’ve got some stuff to go to the library,” said Perkins suddenly. His voice was young and soft.

They stared at him. Crawley said, “It’ll keep.”

Levine looked at Perkins, trying to get to know him. It was a technique he used, most of it unconsciously. First, he tried to fit Perkins into a type or category, some sort of general stereotype. Then he would look for small and individual ways in which Perkins differed from the general type, and he would probably wind up with a surprisingly complete mental picture, which would also be surprisingly accurate.

The general stereotype was easy. Perkins, in his black wool sweater and belt-in-the-back khakis and scuffed brown loafers without socks, was “arty.” What were they calling them this year? They were “hip” last year, but this year they were — “beat.” That was it. For a general stereotype, Larry Perkins was a beatnik. The individual differences would show up soon, in Perkins’ talk and mannerisms and attitudes.

Crawley said again, “Let’s go inside,” and the four of them trooped into the room where the corpse lay.

The apartment was one large room, plus a closet-size kitchenette and an even smaller bathroom. A Murphy bed stood open, covered with zebra-striped material. The rest of the furniture consisted of a battered dresser, a couple of armchairs and lamps, and a record player sitting on a table beside a huge stack of long-playing records. Everything except the record player looked faded and worn and secondhand, including the thin maroon rug on the floor and the soiled flower-pattern wallpaper. Two windows looked out on a narrow cement enclosure and the back of another brownstone. It was a sunny day outside, but no sun managed to get down into this room.

In the middle of the room stood a card table, with a typewriter and two stacks of paper on it. Before the card table was a folding chair, and in the chair sat the dead man. He was slumped forward, his arms flung out and crumpling the stacks of paper, his head resting on the typewriter. His face was turned toward the door, and his eyes were closed, his facial muscles relaxed. It had been a peaceful death, at least, and Levine was grateful for that.

Crawley looked at the body, grunted, and turned to Perkins. “Okay,” he said. “Tell us about it.”

“I put the poison in his beer,” said Perkins simply. He didn’t talk like a beatnik at any rate. “He asked me to open a can of beer for him. When I poured it into a glass, I put the poison in, too. When he was dead, I went and talked to the patrolman here.”

“And that’s all there was to it?”

“That’s all.”

Levine asked, “Why did you kill him?”

Perkins looked over at Levine. “Because he was a pompous ass.”

“Look at me,” Crawley told him.

Perkins immediately looked away from Levine, but before he did so, Levine caught a flicker of emotion in the boy’s eyes, what emotion he couldn’t tell. Levine glanced around the room, at the faded furniture and the card table and the body, and at young Perkins, dressed like a beatnik but talking like the politest of polite young men, outwardly calm but hiding some strong emotion inside his eyes. What was it Levine had seen there? Terror? Rage? Or pleading?

“Tell us about this guy.” said Crawley, motioning at the body. “His name, where you knew him from, the whole thing.”

“His name is Al Gruber. He got out of the Army about eight months ago. He’s living on his savings and the GI Bill. I mean, he was.”

“He was a college student?”

“More or less. He was taking a few courses at Columbia, nights. He wasn’t a full-time student.”

Crawley said, “What was he, full-time?”

Perkins shrugged. “Not much of anything. A writer. An undiscovered writer. Like me.”

Levine asked, “Did he make much money from his writing?”

“None,” said Perkins. This time he didn’t turn to look at Levine, but kept watching Crawley while he answered. “He got something accepted by one of the quarterlies once,” he said, “but I don’t think they ever published it. And they don’t pay anything anyway.”

“So he was broke?” asked Crawley.

“Very broke. I know the feeling well.”

“You in the same boat?”

“Same life story completely,” said Perkins. He glanced at the body of Al Gruber and said, “Well, almost. I write, too. And I don’t get any money for it. And I’m living on the GI Bill and savings and a few home-typing jobs, and going to Columbia nights.”

People came into the room then, the medical examiner and the boys from the lab, and Levine and Crawley, bracketing Perkins between them, waited and watched for a while. When they could see that the M.E. had completed his first examination, they left Perkins in Tanner’s charge and went over to talk to him.

Crawley, as usual, asked the questions. “Hi, Doc,” he said. “What’s it look like to you?”

“Pretty straightforward case,” said the M.E. “On the surface, anyway. Our man here was poisoned, felt the effects coming on, went to the typewriter to tell us who’d done it to him, and died. A used glass and a small medicine bottle were on the dresser. We’ll check them out, but they almost certainly did the job.”

“Did he manage to do any typing before he died?” asked Crawley.

The M.E. shook his head. “Not a word. The paper was in the machine kind of crooked, as though he’d been in a hurry, but he just wasn’t fast enough.”

“He wasted his time,” said Crawley. “The guy confessed right away.”

“The one over there with the patrolman?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Seems odd, doesn’t it?” said the M.E. “Take the trouble to poison someone, and then run out and confess to the first cop you see.”

Crawley shrugged. “You can never figure,” he said.

“I’ll get the report to you soon’s I can,” said the M.E.

“Thanks, Doc. Come on, Abe, let’s take our pigeon to his nest.”

“Okay,” said Levine, abstractedly. Already it felt wrong. It had been feeling wrong, vaguely, ever since he’d caught that glimpse of something in Perkins’ eyes. And the feeling of wrongness was getting stronger by the minute, without getting any clearer.

They walked back to Tanner and Perkins, and Crawley said, “Okay, Perkins, let’s go for a ride.”

They walked back to Tanner.

“You’re going to book me?” asked Perkins. He sounded oddly eager.

“Just come along,” said Crawley. He didn’t believe in answering extraneous questions.

“All right,” said Perkins. He turned to Tanner. “Would you mind taking my books and records back to the library? They’re due today. They’re the ones on that chair. And there’s a couple more over in the stack of Al’s records.”

“Sure,” said Tanner. He was gazing at Perkins with a troubled look on his face, and Levine wondered if Tanner felt the same wrongness that was plaguing him.

“Let’s go,” said Crawley impatiently, and Perkins moved toward the door.

“I’ll be right along,” said Levine. As Crawley and Perkins left the apartment, Levine glanced at the titles of the books and record albums Perkins had wanted returned to the library. Two of the books were collections of Elizabethan plays, one was the New Arts Writing Annual, and the other two were books on criminology. The records were mainly folk songs, of the bloodier type.

Levine frowned and went over to Tanner. He asked, “What were you and Perkins talking about before we got here?”

Tanner’s face was still creased in a puzzled frown. “The stupidity of the criminal mind,” he said. “There’s something goofy here, Lieutenant.”

“You may be right,” Levine told him. He walked on down the hall and joined the other two at the door.

All three got into the front seat of the Chevy, Crawley driving again and Perkins sitting in the middle. They rode in silence, Crawley busy driving, Perkins studying the complex array of the dashboard, with its extra knobs and switches and the mike hooked beneath the radio, and Levine trying to figure out what was wrong.