young woman, can have other children. I feel I have as much right to my child, give it all the advantages...”
I hung up.
We'd tried everything. There was only one more possibility, the one thing I thought about deep in my mind, even dreamed about at times when the thought escaped and came out into the open.... How simple things would be if Elma became a widow.
The idea of killing this Mac scared the bejesus out of me. But I knew it was the only out left.
Mac had to die.
I had to kill... figure out a perfect murder.
CHAPTER FIVE
I HAD THE RUNS THAT NIGHT, I WAS SO NERVOUS.
And when I wasn't running, I was sweating. I lay beside Elma, hearing her moan now and then in her sleep, or her leg suddenly kick out—a reflex of nervous terror. And I tried to think how to murder her husband.
“Comic” books and contemporary literature to the contrary, murder is a sickening, insane thought—a reflection of a sick world. The very idea of one human ending the hopes, the desires, the laughter and sadness of another human is the height of stupid conceit. Much as I hated Mac, I didn't want to kill him. Yet I had no choice: it was either him or losing Elma... which would be the same as ending my own life.
But murder frightened me: I'd never been so frightened. I tried to think it out thoroughly.... How does one murder? I was a layman, the rankest of amateurs, and I had to plan the greatest of all crimes—the perfect killing. One thing was for sure—getting caught would be as bad as losing Elma.
My thoughts raced around in a tired circle. Undoubtedly as soon as Mac was killed, the police would get in touch with Elma—as his widow—and I'd be the number-one suspect. The first thing I needed was a good alibi. I thought of all sorts of childish things—like taking a rowboat and saying I was going fishing, beaching it on the shore and going into town and killing him, then returning to the boat and rowing in from the Sound at the end of the day. But I knew that was a lousy alibi—the cops had better trained minds than mine, they could figure that too.
And I knew the more I planned, the more chance I had of tripping myself. What was needed was a simple method of killing. I had one advantage—Mac had never seen me, so I could approach him without warning. But approach him where, when? Would I kill him on the street, strangle him in his sleep...?
I kept turning ideas over in my mind—most of them things I'd read or seen in the movies—till I had a headache and was still no nearer having a plan. With murder there cannot be any failure.
Towards morning the dope Elma took wore off and she began to cry softly, thinking I was asleep. Her crying was like a whip cutting my heart. I put my arms around her gently, tried to calm her. She sobbed, “Marsh, this is all so unfair to you. I wish I could control myself, I know I'm being selfish, but I can't even think of giving up my baby.”
“Darling, first have the baby. If you don't stop worrying you can have a miscarriage and that would be worse than losing the kid to Mac. You must believe that things will turn out right for us. We have to keep riding our luck—like in a crap game. When you're hot, have faith in yourself.”
“But maybe our meeting, our luck, was too good to last.”
“Don't even say that, it's going to last—it
“Marsh, I can almost lean on your words. Your strong arm seems like a great wall protecting us,” Elma said, kissing the muscle of my arm.
I flexed the muscle, like a kid showing off. “I'd like to get my arm around Mac for a few seconds! Honey, we'll outwit him. After all, we have two minds against his—a crummy little storekeeper...”
You know how it is—you can think and think for days and never get any place, then one word suddenly sets your mind in order. Soon as I said “storekeeper” a brace of bells went off in my brain, as if I'd hit the jackpot in a pinball machine. All the time I'd been thinking of killing Mac and here.... Outside of a natural death in bed, how do storekeepers die? What's an almost occupational hazard for them?
A hold-up!
“Marsh, I'm such a pest and you're so good and...”
“Get some sleep, honey, and relax,” I said, kissing her, and so wide awake I wanted to spring out of bed.
Elma turned until she was comfortable, began breathing evenly. I stared up at the darkness. A stick-up would be simple... and nobody would connect me with it.
An “unknown thug” enters the store and shoots Mac during a hold-up. I might be able to hire a thug, but that would be risky, and I hadn't the slightest idea how to go about that. No, the thug would have to be me—in disguise. A good disguise so that if he was seen—in fact I wanted “him” to be seen—he would look entirely different from me.
Now I had a plan. First the disguise. It would be impossible to make myself taller, but if I wore a lot of padding, then my shoulders would be lost, I'd merely look like a short, dumpy, clown. I'd dye my hair black with one of these new washable dyes. This was it. I'd make sure Elma took a pill late, then leave here at about four in the morning. She wouldn't come to till noon. I could be over in Newark by eight, shoot Mac as soon as he opened and be back before...
Shoot? Where would I get a gun?
How the hell does one get a gun? Must be a hundred or more places in New York where guns were sold under the counter... you read about kid gangs getting guns... but where? I could stab him, but that would be clumsy and maybe I didn't have the guts to cut a man to death. It would be nothing to buy a rifle... saw off the barrel. I had a dull hacksaw. Tony had a better one that.... I smiled up at the dark ceiling.... Tony's Luger!
I'd steal it, shoot Mac, and put the Luger back. Tony would never miss it. Then a day or so later, I'd borrow it... ask him for it... I wanted to use it as a model or something. Then I'd lose the damn thing, throw it in the ocean. He'd raise hell and I'd say I was sorry, offer him money for a new gun.
I sighed. The gun part was simple.
The big thing was the get-away. I'd have the car parked near the store and after I'd shot Mac, made it look like a robbery, I'd drive away, stop some place to take off my padded suit, wash the dye out of my hair. I'd put a plug in my nose, a wad of cotton, to distort my face, place a wart on my face with make-up. I had to be seen... so the cops would be hunting for a fat, dark-haired man with a wide nose and a wart on his face.
This was it, all right. There were plenty of holes in my scheme. Suppose Tony knew the gun was missing? What if Alice came over in the morning, to see about Elma, knew I wasn't home? What if I couldn't make a quick get-away, had to shoot it out with a cop? What if somebody saw me get into the car, remembered my license plates? Jesus, maybe Mac had a clerk working with him? Maybe Mac had a gun, and shot me!
I couldn't find the answers to these questions. A perfect crime depends upon a great deal of luck... and luck would either be with me or against me. I'd have to push my luck to the limit, hope it held.
When night slowly changed to dawn, I was in the bathroom, still thinking like mad. I had a few answers. I'd buy a can of this house paint that has a water base, paint one fender to make the car noticeable, then wash it off before I came back to New York. Maybe I could steal some New Jersey license plates? No, that would be too much risk... I'd muddy up my own.
I dressed and had some coffee. Elma was still sleeping. At nine I went over to the Alvins. Alice was in the kitchen, a robe over her nightgown. She told me, “You look like you tied one on, Marsh.”
“Didn't sleep. Elma had a rough night. Look, I have to go into town. Could you stay with her this morning?”
“Of course. Do my writing at your place. I've rewritten this one chapter three times now. Gee, Elma is certainly having a time. I don't understand it, always seemed so calm and healthy and then...”
“Doc says some women have it rough with the first one. And I forgot to give her a pill last night. Tonight I'll be sure to give her one, so don't come over tomorrow morning.” And my heart beat faster at the casual way I'd decided it would be tomorrow! Within twenty-four hours I would take a man's life.
I went back and changed from my sweat shirt and dungarees to a suit and shirt and tie. Alice came over about an hour later and Elma was still sleeping. I told her to tell Elma I had to see my agent, would be back before supper.
I drove off, then quickly circled back to their house. Nobody locked their doors in Sandyhook. I found the Luger hidden in a drawer and a full clip of bullets. That was another chance I had to take. Tony mustn't notice there was an empty shell or more, in the clip... if he should look at the gun. I'd stripped a .45 during army basic and I prayed I could do the same with a Luger, get the cordite stink out of it.
As I drove to New York I had another nightmare. What if I got a flat in New Jersey, had motor trouble? Only insurance against that would be to have Len check the car.
Now and then I felt of the Luger in my pocket. The very feel of the gun gave me a kind of stupid confidence. The fact that I had death in my pocket gave me a feeling of strength, of power. It didn't make sense—I
