five minutes patiently wiping prints from its surface. Then I trudged the long distance back to the dressing table, carrying the gun in my handkerchief.
I took the limp right hand in mine and closed it about the butt. The hand was small and the index finger barely spanned the distance to the trigger.
I raised the hand, still clutched on the pistol, until the barrel pointed exactly into the wound a few inches away.
Then I let the hand fall and the gun clattered on the floor.
You're good, I thought. Boy, you're good. For an amateur you're doing all right. You ought to be a pro.
So that was that and I only had to touch it once more. I got another handkerchief from the dresser and, wearily now, I walked out of the bedroom and into the hall and on down it toward the dark living room. I went over to the desk from which I had taken the gun.
Her portable was there, the battered old Underwood she had brought with her and used for the voluminous correspondence she had carried on with old friends. With a handkerchief in each hand, I picked it up, careful not lo touch it, and carried it back to the bedroom.
I returned again to the living room and opened a drawer and, again with a handkerchief, picked up a sheet of typing paper. I went back to the bedroom and rolled the paper into the machine.
Still using the two handkerchiefs, I picked the typewriter up again and carried it over and put it down in the lap. I squatted at the left side and steadied the machine on the sprawled legs with my left hand. I reached across it with my right and took the right arm and pulled it into its lap. Then I took the right index finger in my hand.
The slow, solemn tap-tap-tap was ominous in the stillness of the room. I felt profuse sweat on my brow and my head was aching badly now. But I kept on punching the lifeless finger at the keyboard until I had spelled out, all in capital letters:
HARRY IS UNFAITHFUL. I JUST CAN'T TAKE IT.
I let the right hand fall back to its side and I took the two handkerchiefs again and picked up the portable and put it on her dressing table. That was all right because she used it in here often, as well as at the living-room desk.
I put one of the handkerchiefs in my pocket and carried the other one to the bathroom and dropped it in the clothes hamper. And then it was done.
But there was still time. I had to be sure. One mistake was all it would take. One mistake could fry me in that evil little armchair up at State Prison. One mistake and Dick Stewart would go free forever.
I sat down on the bed and put my elbows on my knees and my chin in my hands. I studied the whole thing out, the way it was, and the way it would look to them. I turned it in my mind and I started right from the beginning and went through it to the end and tried to see the loose ends dangling. My aching head didn't make it any easier. But I forced myself to think it through.
It's a good thing I did. Because I had made two mistakes. Two glaring boners. Maybe more, too, but I couldn't find them, and just the two were bad enough.
The first would be easy to fix. I had wiped the gun absolutely clean of fingerprints and had put hers on it. It didn't stand to reason that my prints wouldn't also be on my own pistol, a souvenir I had lugged back with me from Italy. So that had to be done all over.
I sat there, staring at the second mistake. It was on the white rug, a little brown stain of blood I hadn't even seen until now, ten feet away from where I had placed the body. I could drag the body back over there to the blood, but it wouldn't look as good, as real as I had made it.
I thought about it until the way came to me. It came to me how I could fix it up about the blood and at the same time seal the case up tight, remove any doubt there might be in their minds when they came.
I got up and got the
I took the limp right hand in mine and closed it about the butt. The hand was small and the index finger barely spanned the distance to the trigger.
I raised the hand, still clutched on the pistol, until the barrel pointed exactly into the wound a few inches away.
Then I let the hand fall and the gun clattered on the floor.
You're good, I thought. Boy, you're good. For an amateur you're doing all right. You ought to be a pro.
So that was that and I only had to touch it once more. I got another handkerchief from the dresser and, wearily now, I walked out of the bedroom and into the hall and on down it toward the dark living room. I went over to the desk from which I had taken the gun.
Her portable was there, the battered old Underwood she had brought with her and used for the voluminous correspondence she had carried on with old friends. With a handkerchief in each hand, I picked it up, careful not lo touch it, and carried it back to the bedroom.
I returned again to the living room and opened a drawer and, again with a handkerchief, picked up a sheet of typing paper. I went back to the bedroom and rolled the paper into the machine.
Still using the two handkerchiefs, I picked the typewriter up again and carried it over and put it down in the lap. I squatted at the left side and steadied the machine on the sprawled legs with my left hand. I reached across it with my right and took the right arm and pulled it into its lap. Then I took the right index finger in my hand.
The slow, solemn tap-tap-tap was ominous in the stillness of the room. I felt profuse sweat on my brow and my head was aching badly now. But I kept on punching the lifeless finger at the keyboard until I had spelled out, all in capital letters:
HARRY IS UNFAITHFUL. I JUST CAN'T TAKE IT.
I let the right hand fall back to its side and I took the two handkerchiefs again and picked up the portable and put it on her dressing table. That was all right because she used it in here often, as well as at the living-room desk.
I put one of the handkerchiefs in my pocket and carried the other one to the bathroom and dropped it in the clothes hamper. And then it was done.
But there was still time. I had to be sure. One mistake was all it would take. One mistake could fry me in that evil little armchair up at State Prison. One mistake and Dick Stewart would go free forever.
I sat down on the bed and put my elbows on my knees and my chin in my hands. I studied the whole thing out, the way it was, and the way it would look to them. I turned it in my mind and I started right from the beginning and went through it to the end and tried to see the loose ends dangling. My aching head didn't make it any easier. But I forced myself to think it through.
It's a good thing I did. Because I had made two mistakes. Two glaring boners. Maybe more, too, but I couldn't find them, and just the two were bad enough.
The first would be easy to fix. I had wiped the gun absolutely clean of fingerprints and had put hers on it. It didn't stand to reason that my prints wouldn't also be on my own pistol, a souvenir I had lugged back with me from Italy. So that had to be done all over.
I sat there, staring at the second mistake. It was on the white rug, a little brown stain of blood I hadn't even seen until now, ten feet away from where I had placed the body. I could drag the body back over there to the blood, but it wouldn't look as good, as real as I had made it.
I thought about it until the way came to me. It came to me how I could fix it up about the blood and at the same time seal the case up tight, remove any doubt there might be in their minds when they came.
I got up and got the
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