Vanish in an Instant by Margaret Millar

wasn’t exactly a noble ges­ture on Margolis’ part. He needed me to help him handle Mrs. Barkeley. She passed out in the back seat. Margolis shook her and swore at her, but she was limp as a rag.”
    He stopped to wipe the sweat from his face with his handkerchief.
    â€œ. . . and swore at her,” Dunlop said in his quick un­interested monotone, “but she was limp as a rag.”
    Loftus appealed to Cordwink: “I’ve admitted every­thing. Why does he have to take all this down?”
    â€œIt’s routine, for one thing. For another, the statement you’re making now will have to be checked with your written confession for discrepancies.”
    â€œBut I’m guilty, I’ve . . .”
    â€œNo matter if you write five hundred confessions, you still have to be tried in a court of law to determine the de­gree of your guilt.”
    â€œYes. Yes, I see now. I didn’t realize.” I sound so meek, Loftus thought. I don’t sound like a murderer at all. Maybe I would be more convincing if I acted belligerent, but I hardly know how.
    â€œAre you ready to continue, Loftus?”
    â€œI—yes, of course. Margolis said he couldn’t take Mrs. Barkeley home in that condition, and he asked me if I’d mind helping him get her out to his cottage. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard of his cottage. There were rumors around the hospital. . . . I was there so much that I got to know quite a few of the nurses, and that’s how I first heard of Margolis and his affairs.”
    â€œThe cottage was just outside the city limits, on the river. It didn’t look like much on the outside, but it was fixed up nice inside—leather furniture and a stone fire­place and some good reproductions hanging on the walls, a Van Gogh, I remember, was one of them.”
    â€œTell me more about the fireplace,” Cordwink said.
    â€œWell, there were a pair of fishing rods, crossed, on the wall above it, and on the mantel itself there were several of those big German steins and two hunting knives in leather sheaths.”
    â€œDunlop . . .” Cordwink made a half-turn. “Was the in­side of Margolis’ cottage described in any of the papers?”
    Dunlop put down his pencil. “A couple of Detroit pa­pers carried a shot of the outside, and the Tribune , I think it was, had a shot of the floor where Margolis was found—bloodstains, et cetera.”
    â€œNo fireplace in the picture?”
    â€œNo fireplace.”
    Loftus smiled anxiously. “I don’t read the Tribune any­way, sir.”
    â€œAll right, go on.”
    â€œI helped Margolis carry her inside the cottage and put her on the davenport. She was still out cold. Margolis was very angry by this time. I think the two of them must have been quarreling earlier in the evening, and that this was a final straw for Margolis. He began calling her names and shaking her again. It was an ugly scene. I thought of all the things I’d heard about Margolis around the hos­pital. I thought of—well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. I went over to the fireplace. The fire was lit and the room was beginning to get very warm. I picked up one of the hunting knives and took it out of its sheath. Margolis wasn’t paying any attention to me. He’d forgotten I was there. I was just a bum, a nobody, a—well, then I did it. I stabbed him in the neck. I’m not very strong and I thought his neck would be the easiest place. It wasn’t easy. I had to stab him four or five times. He fell after the first stab, but he didn’t die right away. He kept sort of flopping around on the floor. The blood was terrible. It got all over me, my gloves and my coat and pants. And the smell—I began to retch. I ran for the door, and I kept on running. I lost my head, forgot about the girl, forgot about everything. All I wanted to do was get away from that blood, that