thought was that Henry needed a shave. His second was that there
was something in Henry's eyes that he had never seen before--
something like chips of ice. A ridiculous thought came to Dex; it
passed through his mind and was gone. Sniper's eyes. Henry
Northrup, whose specialty is the earlier English poets, has got
sniper's eyes.
'How are you feeling, Dex?'
'A slight headache,' Dex said. 'Henry... the police... what
happened?'
'The police aren't coming,' Northrup said calmly. 'As for your
head, I'm very sorry. I put one of Wilma's sleeping powders in
your third drink. Be assured that it will pass.'
'Henry, what are you saying?'
Henry took a sheet of notepaper from his breast pocket. 'This is
the note I left my wife. It will explain a lot, I think. I got it back
after everything was over. I took a chance that she'd leave it on the
table, and I got away with it.'
'I don't know what you're--'
He took the note from Henry's fingers and read it, eyes widening.
Dear Billie,
I've just had a call from Dex Stanley. He's hysterical.
Seems to have committed some sort of indiscretion with
one of his female grad students. He's at Amberson Hall.
So is the girl. For God's sake, come quickly. I'm not
sure exactly what the situation is, but a woman's
presence may be imperative, and under the
circumstances, a nurse from the infirmary just won't do.
I know you don't like Dex much, but a scandal like this
could ruin his career. Please come.
Henry.
'What in God's name have you done?' Dex asked hoarsely.
Henry plucked the note from Dex's nerveless fingers, produced his
Zippo, and set flame to the corner. When it was burning well, he
dropped the charring sheet of paper into an ashtray on the
windowsill.
'I've killed Wilma,' he said in the same calm voice. 'Ding-dong,
the wicked bitch is dead.' Dex tried to speak and could not. That
central axle was trying to tear loose again.The abyss of utter
insanity was below. 'I've killed my wife, and now I've put myself
into your hands.'
Now Dex did find his voice. It had a sound that was rusty yet
shrill. 'The crate,' he said. 'What have you done with the crate?'
'That's the beauty of it,' Henry said. 'You put the final piece in the
jigsaw yourself. The crate is at the bottom of Ryder's Quarry.'
Dex groped at that while he looked into Henry's eyes. The eyes of
his friend. Sniper's eyes. You can't knock off your own queen,
that's not in anyone's rules of chess, he thought, and restrained an
urge to roar out gales of rancid laughter. The quarry, he had said.
Ryder's Quarry. It was over four hundred feet deep, some said. It
