swore mildly at his chronic forgetfulness.
Pouring some of the tablets into his hand, he stared at them blankly for a moment. Then he got down an empty cup and began crushing them one at a time with a spoon.
It was a slow process; he was but two-thirds finished when Samantha's impatient voice called from the front room, 'What are you doing, dreamer? Staring off into space?'
His heart hammering in fear she would enter the kitchen, he called back, 'It's almost ready, Samantha. Just one more minute.'
As rapidly as possible he crushed the remaining tablets, scraped the powder into the chocolate and stirred it vigorously. When it was completely dissolved, he touched his tongue to the solution and was panic stricken to find it faintly bitter. He shoveled in two extra teaspoonsful of sugar, stirred it and tasted it again. It now tasted normal.
He carried the cup and saucer out to Samantha who, after accepting it with a grunt, went through her usual ritual of pouring some into the saucer for Roger.
Immediately the cat dropped from his favorite spot on the window ledge, padded to the saucer and tentatively explored the chocolate's temperature. Then, instead of sitting back to wait for it to cool, he lapped the dish clean.
Homer stared in horror, realizing that the time consumed in crushing the codeine tablets had allowed the chocolate to cool sufficiently to please the cat. Homer watched, fascinated, as the animal licked its whiskers; stretched and rubbed itself against Samantha's calf.
Samantha took a sip from the cup, and exploded.
'You idiot!' She screamed at Homer. 'Can't you do anything right? This chocolate is merely luke-warm!'
Homer gulped, his eyes on Roger. Roger looked up at him.
'Take it back to the kitchen.' Samantha ordered. 'Heat it up. You know I want
Homer took the cup and carried it to the kitchen. Dumping the contents into a sauce pan, he turned the gas on full. Just before it boiled he removed the pan from the flame, poured the chocolate back in the cup. He got back to Samantha just as fast as he could.
For once Homer did an efficient job. Too efficient. The chocolate was too hot to drink. After sampling it by taking the barest sip, Samantha set the cup aside to let it cool.
As Homer watched the cat in an agony of apprehension, precious minutes dragged by. He knew he could never get Samantha to pick up the cup.
Roger was back on the ledge, purring, begging, Homer felt sure, for more chocolate. If Roger would just die quietly there, Samantha would never know.
Homer took a deep breath as Samantha finally raised the cup to her lips. She paused, said in an impatient voice, 'Oh, all right, Roger, you may have a drop more.'
The cat sprung off the window ledge, wobbled on his feet, looked up once more at Homer. The animal took a step toward the saucer, and suddenly his front legs collapsed.
Samantha stared at Roger in puzzlement, and Homer watched in terror, as the cat struggled to his feet, took another aimless step and fell over on his side. His eyes rolled and his breathing began to grow heavy.
Samantha glanced from the cat to her brother. Her eyes narrowed, and she said, 'You drink my chocolate this evening, Homer.'
Homer gibbered an unintelligible refusal. Roger's heavy breathing stopped.
'You actually meant to kill me, didn't you?' she said in a tone of soft satisfaction.
Homer gazed at her without immediate understanding. She added gently, 'My dear brother, two can play at that game.'
He understood her sudden air of satisfaction then. His act had given her the moral excuse she needed to turn her often-expressed hope into reality, and Homer knew he was lost. He had no idea of where to obtain more poison, and no murder plan aside from poison.
But Samantha was different. She was efficient. She would be able to devise any number of alternate plans.
Any of which would work.
The Man Who Got Away With It
by LAWRENCE TREAT
The whole matter of a criminal returning to the scene of his crime defies analysis. Be that as it may, the transportation companies will continue to be pleased by restless criminals. In our tale, it is plain that the return to the scene was made in that spirit of arrogance which truly distinguishes man from the lower forms of life.
When he riffled through the batch of insurance claims that his secretary had left on his desk, he stopped at the big one — $100,000. He stared at the figures for maybe half a minute, thinking that with that amount somebody was rich. Then, still musing, he glanced at the name of the beneficiary, and he started. Mrs. Marvin Seeley.
Fran.
He swung around in his chair and stared at his reflection in the glass door of the bookcase. He saw a big, graying man, heavy in the face, with a short, broad nose and a neat mustache. There was no link between this individual — Hugh Bannerman, head of the claims department — and a bank teller wanted for embezzlement and murder. After twenty-five years, how could there be? And yet -
To see her again, to take the gamble and face her. Did he dare? His spine tingled, and his blood hummed through his veins with excitement.
She'd been a slender flame of a girl, young and lovely, with a dowry that made her even more desirable. But you need money to get money, and so he wooed her on bank funds. In their secret, lovers' world, he was Blinky and she was Winky, and she was as good as hooked. He figured that after they were married, after he confessed what he'd done for love of her, she'd replace every cent.
The scheme was fool-proof, for banks don't prosecute when you make restitution, and he had a whole year before the auditors could catch up with him. And his plans would have worked, too, if her brother, Mike, hadn't stuck his nose in. Mike was assistant cashier, and Mike had always had it in for him.
Bannerman scowled, remembering the evening Mike had accused him. Pretending a forthright honesty, when he was really out for blood.
'Twenty thousand dollars,' Mike said. 'I thought I'd better tell you here, in front of Fran, before I report it to the bank. In case you have an explanation.'
Bannerman felt the gun in his pocket. He carried it in those days, just in case, and it gave him the courage to brazen this out.
'What's twenty thousand to you and Fran? You have it. You can get me out of this. For friendship, for love — '
Fran let out a little cry. 'How can you!' she exclaimed. And Mike said contemptuously, 'Why, you cheap fraud!'
That was when he took out the gun and leveled it at Mike. 'Say that again,' he remarked quietly. 'If you have the nerve.'
Fran screamed, 'No — don't!' She tried to grab the gun, and that gave him an added excuse to fire. What right did Mike have to go on living, when he'd pulled a trick like that?
The bank teller disappeared immediately after the shooting, and he left no trace. With a little luck and a little police bungling, a smart man doesn't get caught. Plastic surgery, a careful change of voice and gesture, and the personality of Hugh Bannerman had emerged.
Smiling, he divided the stack of papers in front of him into two piles, one on each side of the desk. He was
