I told him that would be fine, hung up, and returned to my reading.
There was only one other living person who knew the contents of that manuscript, Rachel Abrams, who had typed it. There was only one logical and sensible thing to do.
Until three months ago I had never been conscious of anything in my mind or heart to justify any concept of myself as a potential murderer. I believed that I understood myself at least as well as most people. I was aware that there was an element of casuistry in my self-justification for what I had done to O'Malley, but without
that intellectual resource no man could preserve his self-esteem. At any rate, I was an altogether different being from the moment I rolled Dykes's body from the pier into the water. I didn't know it at the time, but I do now. The change was not so much in my conscious mind as in the depths. If the processes of the subconscious can be put into rational terms at all, I think mine were something like this: (a) I have murdered a man in cold blood; (b) I am a decent and humane person, as men go, certainly not vicious or depraved; therefore (c) the conventional attitude toward the act of murder is invalid and immoral.
My inner being could not permit me to feel any moral repulsion at the thought of killing Joan Wellman, certainly not enough to restrain me, for if killing her was morally unacceptable how could I justify the killing of Dykes? By killing Joan Wellman the process was completed. After that, given adequate motive, I could have killed any number of people without any sign of compunction.
So in contemplating the murder of Rachel Abrams my only concerns were whether it was necessary and whether it could be performed without undue risk. I decided it was necessary. As for the risk, I left that to circumstances. With her I could not use the same kind of subterfuge I had used with Joan Wellman, since she had known Dykes as Baird Archer. My plan was so simple that it was really no plan at all. I merely went to her office one rainy afternoon, unannounced. If she had had an associate there with her, or if any one of a dozen other possible obstacles had arisen, I would have gone away and devised a procedure. But she had only one room and was there alone. I told her I wanted a typing job done, approached her to show her what it was, grasped her throat, had her unconscious in half a minute, opened the window, and lifted her and pushed her out. Unfortunately I had no time to search for records; of course I had no time at all. I left, ran down the stairs to the next floor, and took the elevator there, having got off there on my way up. When I left the building her body was on the sidewalk and a crowd was already collecting. Three days later, when my associates and I came to see you, I learned that I had been ahead of your man Goodwin by not
140 REX STpUT
more than two minutes. I took that as conclusive evidence that luck was on my side, even though he found entries in her records that connected her with Baird Archer. If he had got to her alive he would have learned the contents of the manuscript.
By that time, the day we called on you, nine days ago, I knew I was in danger but was confident that I could ward it off. You knew of Baird Archer and the manuscript and had connected them with Dykes and therefore with our office, but that was all. Your noticing that scribbled 'Ps 146-3' on Dykes's letter of resignation in my handwriting, and correctly interpreting it, increased the danger only slightly if at all, since my plain square hand can be easily imitated by almost anyone and my associates unanimously supported me in convincing the police that you must have made the notation yourself in an effort to trick us.
Wednesday, when the letter from Mrs. Potter arrived, I did not suspect that you had anything to do with it. I thought it was a deadly blow that fate had dealt me at the worst possible moment. It was brought to me, but since it had been addressed not to an individual but to the firm our mail clerk had read it, and therefore I had to show it to my associates. We discussed it and agreed with no dissent that it was essential for us to learn what was in the manuscript, and that one of us must go immediately to California. There was a division of opinion as to who should go, and of course I had to insist that it must be me. Since I was the senior partner my view prevailed and I left by the first available plane.
You know what happened in California. I was in great peril, but I was not desperate until I went to Finch's room in his absence and found Goodwin there. From that moment my position was manifestly hopeless, but I refused to give up. Since, through Goodwin, you had certainly learned the content of the manuscript, my betrayal of O'Malley was sure to be disclosed, but it might yet be possible to avoid a charge of murder. All night, on the plane, with Goodwin seated there only a few feet from me, I considered possible courses and plans.
I had phoned one of my partners from Los Angeles, and they were all at the office when I arrived this morning, going directly from the airport. Their unanimous
opinion was that we should call on you and demand to be told the substance of the manuscript. I argued strongly for an alternative course but could not sway them. When we went to your office I was prepared to face the disclosure of my betrayal of O'Malley, supposing that you would tell us about the manuscript, but instead of that you dealt me another blow. You told us nothing, saying that you were not quite ready to act and that you still needed a fact or two. For me that could have only one meaning. You did not intend to expose my betrayal of O'Malley until you were fully prepared to use it as evidence on a charge of murder, and you would not have said that to us unless you expected soon to be prepared. I didn't know which fact or two you still needed, but it didn't matter. Obviously you had me or you would soon get me.
My associates wanted a luncheon conference, but I plead fatigue from my night on the plane and came here to my apartment. Again my subconscious had taken command, for it came to me in a rush of sudden surprise that I had irrevocably determined to kill myself. I did not dispute the decision. I calmly accepted it. The further decision, whether to leave behind me an account of my disaster and what led to it, has not yet been made. I have spent hours writing this. I shall now read it over and decide. If I send it at all it will go to you, since it is you who have destroyed me. Again here at the end, as at the beginning, what interests me most is my motive. What is it in me that wants to send this to you, or to anyone? But if I start on that I will never end. If I do send it I will not attempt to tell you what to do with it, since in any case you will do as you see fit. That is what I am doing; I am doing as I see fit.
That was all. I jiggled the sheets together, refolded them, slipped them into the envelope, and went and mounted the three flights to the plant rooms. Wolfe, wearing one of his new yellow smocks, was in the potting room inspecting the roots of some Dendrobiums he had knocked out of the pots. I handed him the envelope and told him, 'You'll have to read this.'
'When I come down.'
'Cramer is coming at eleven. If you read it with him
sitting there he'll get impatient. If you talk with him without reading it I would prefer not to be present.'
'What does it say?'
