the elevator after the stretcher, a doctor I supposed. I stood back while they maneuvered the stretcher through the door and out to the ambulance. Then I took the elevator up to my floor.
Doris was waiting for me at the door of our apartment. Her eyes were big; she looked scared. But she looked so wonderful to me that I didn't think of anything else for a second except her.
'Hi, baby,' I said, folding her into my arms before we even had the door shut.
'Hi, traveler,' she said, kissing me. She called me traveler sometimes because of my job. 'I'm glad you're home, dear.'
'Me too.' It was the understatement of the week. I sniffed. 'Spare ribs?'
She nodded, thinking of something else.
'Good,' I said, and threw my hat at the closet shelf. She kept her arm around my waist as we went toward the kitchen together. It was our routine. My first act when I got home from my trips was to mix a martini for us.
I said, 'As I was coming in downstairs, they carried somebody out of here on a stretcher. Who's sick?'
She got down the gin and vermouth for me. 'Not sick,' she said in a shocked voice. 'Dead, Jim. It was Mr. Wilkins, the fellow who lives — lived — across the hall from us.'
'No!' I said. 'What happened to him?'
'They don't know for sure.' Doris passed me a tray of ice cubes. Her hand trembled. 'He just died.'
'What a lousy break. Nice, quiet neighbor, too.' I started to measure out the gin into the pitcher. I looked up and caught her eyes on me, and she seemed pretty close to tears. 'Why, baby!' I said, turning to put my arms around her. 'You're upset. You can't let a neighbor's death get to you like this. That's the way these things happen sometimes, that's all.'
'B-but I'm the one who missed him,' she explained haltingly. She shivered in my arms. 'It j-just occurred to me this afternoon after lunch that I hadn't seen Mr. Wilkins in the hall or elevator the last day or-or two' — she cut her eyes at me to see how I took this explanation — 'and when I went out on the landing, past his apartment door, I didn't hear his typewriter tapping, either. You know how the typewriter was always going. You could hear it through the door.'
'Sure,' I said.
'I went across the hall and rang his bell. Several t-times. When he didn't answer, I thought at first he was out. But then I remembered that he hardly ever went anywhere, especially in summer' — she didn't explain how she was so sure of a peculiar fact like that — 'so I called the building superintendent and asked if Mr. Wilkins was away. He said not that he knew of. So I told him I was worried, and asked him if he didn't think he'd better investigate.'
'I see. And the Super went in and found him.'
'Yes. He used his passkey. I went in with him. And we found poor Mr. Wilkins lying on his sofa in the living room and not b-breathing at all!'
'Just like that, eh? Boy, that's the way to go. In your sleep.'
'But he wasn't lying straight and flat, Jim. Not like sleep. More like he fell on the sofa when he was dying. His eyes were wide open and looked terrified, somehow.' She hugged me tightly. 'It was h-horrible!'
'Sure, baby. I wish you hadn't seen him like that. A man knows he's dying, he gets that scared look in his eyes. I saw it in the service. It's natural.'
'The superintendent called the police emergency squad. And the police doctor came and they took Mr. Wilkins away just now.'
'What'd the doctor say? Heart attack, I suppose.'
'He didn't know,' Doris said. 'He couldn't tell for sure without one of those — you know — examinations after you're dead.'
'Autopsy,' I said. She nodded miserably. My heart was hammering with excitement. I was afraid she'd notice it. 'I'm going to look at Wilkins' apartment, Doris. I guess I'm morbid. I want to see where you found him, poor fellow. Want to come?'
'I certainly don't!' Doris said. 'I've had all I want of that dreadful place today!'
'Pour out the drinks,' I said. 'I'll be back in a minute.'
I went across the hall to Wilkins' door. I intended fiddling with the lock, using the key to my own apartment. But I was pleasantly surprised to find the door open. I looked at the sofa where they'd found Wilkins' body. But my eyes didn't linger there a second. They went right on past to the end table beyond, where my candy box lay in the midst of its discarded wrappings, its lid fallen off the table onto the floor.
I grinned, picturing vividly what had happened when those imprisoned bees, innocently released by Wilkins as he opened his mail, had come boiling out of the box. It couldn't have taken long after he panicked and began shooing and striking at them as he almost surely did, because when you're allergic to bee-venom the way Wilkins was, one good dose of multiple bee-stings will collapse your circulatory system and stop your breathing so quick you wouldn't believe it.
I found them in the kitchen.
Wilkins had a row of African violets blooming in pots on the kitchen window sill, and the bees were buzzing drowsily against the screen over the open window behind the violets, anxious to get out into the warm August air again.
Nobody will ever figure this one out, I told myself. I allowed myself a wise smile as I opened the screen behind the violets and watched the little yellow murderers stream gladly through to freedom.
I went back to Doris and my martini. I took her into my lap as we drank. I thought how nice it would be to have her all to myself again. What a doll! I looked at her fondly. So maybe she was inclined to take up with other men when I was away. Out of sheer boredom only. Just to dilute her loneliness. Nothing else.
Suddenly it occurred to me that there was one good way to put a stop to that: quit this crummy selling routine that kept me on the road half the time.
I put down my empty martini glass and turned her face to me and kissed her. I kissed her good. I said, 'Baby, I've decided to quit my job.'
'You what?' She was thunderstruck.
'Yeah. I want to be home more, Doris. With you. I get so lonesome on the road.'
'I get lonesome, too, Jim,' she murmured contritely into my shoulder.
'Sure you do, honey. And you know what? I've thought of a job that would let me stay right here with you all the time.'
She raised her head. 'What?'
'Writing detective stories. Like poor old Wilkins across the hall. I think I'd like to try my hand at that.' I kissed her again. 'I have an idea I might be pretty good at murder.'
Her arms tightened around me. 'Darling, I'd love having you home with me,' she said, 'but you've never written a story in your life!'
'You've got to start sometime,' I said.
So this is the first one.
Did you like it?
The Butler Who Didn't Do It
by CRAIG RICE
There's more to being a butler than the ability to stand stiffly erect. One must also be able to look down one's nose, while keeping one's ears open and one's mouth shut. Understandably, butlers are a vanishing race.
'Please, Malone,' the beautiful brunette said, in a passionate tone. 'You've got to help me!'
John J. Malone flicked his cigar inaccurately toward the ashtray on his desk and closed his eyes. When he
