Murdock flexed his shoulders and made up his mind. He had no way of telling what Arnold might do under the circumstances and so he decided to take a chance. In this luck was with him in giving him something to work with, but it took more than luck to capitalize on it; it took clear thinking to visualize the problem properly, and it took nerve to back up his judgment once he had made up his mind.
“I just thought I’d ask,” he said quietly, “because actually that gun isn’t going to do you much good.” He moved an easy step forward, gambling now and in no hurry. “You see I was here alone with your wife while you were showing the police to the door. I thought I’d take a look around. I wasn’t sure just what might develop so when I found that revolver in the desk I thought it might be a good idea to remove the shells.”
He had his hand out now, still walking, opening the palm and disclosing the five shells he had taken from Bert Carlin’s gun that morning. He saw Arnold’s gaze waver and now he was at the desk, tipping his hand so that the shells cascaded to the blotter pad. Arnold hesitated uncertainly, his eyes bewildered and a slackness working in his jaw. But he looked down, some impulse beyond his control forcing him to do so. He looked at Murdock, who was smiling now, and then he looked at the gun. It was then that Murdock, already leaning forward, reached out and cuffed it from Arnold’s hand, the sweep of his arms swift and sure so that though the gun exploded, it was knocked far to the left and out of reach.
Murdock was moving before the gun struck the floor, but so was Arnold. There was nothing wrong with his reflexes and as Murdock grabbed for him, Arnold heaved mightily at the desk.
He could not upset it, but he tipped it sufficiently to knock Murdock off balance, and then, swiveling the chair from his path, he darted around the far side, heading for the door.
He might have made it if he had kept going, but he had other ideas in mind. With Murdock a half-dozen strides behind him, he wheeled just short of the doorway. Then, in one swift, sure movement he swept up the cane Murdock had replaced, cleared the sword, and faced about.
Murdock stopped six feet from that thin, unwavering blade, his stomach tightening. He was puffing hard from his exertion. So was Arnold. He was breathing through the mouth now and his thin smile was twisted as he sidled over to get his back against the wall.
Murdock tried to control his own breathing; he tried to relax; he cursed himself for his stupidity in trying to catch the man when he should have followed the gun. He did not like the narrowed brightness in the other’s stare and he waited, aware that Arnold was no longer bent on escape. Finally the man spoke.
“You are clever,” he said, still fighting to get his breath. He seemed about to say something else when suddenly his glance slid beyond Murdock and the narrowness went from it.
Puzzled, not understanding the change, Murdock saw those eyes grow big with fear. He heard Arnold catch his breath, a gasping animal sound. Then, drawing back until he was flat against the wall, the man cried out.
“Ginny!” he said, his voice tight. “No, Ginny!”
It was the last thing he ever said. Hardly had he spoken when a shot hammered in reply, and as Murdock wheeled, he saw Ginny Arnold standing in the center of the room, the revolver bucking in her hand as she pulled the trigger three times as fast as she could work it.
For that second or two Murdock froze where he stood, unable to speak, unable even to think. Then the room was quiet and the woman stood staring past him, her eyes no longer quite sane.
Arnold dropped the sword. He staggered, slipping sideways along the wall while one hand pawed feebly through space. His thin, once-handsome face twisted and grew slack and his eyelids wavered. Then he went down, slowly, falling where he stood, now on his knees, now tipping limply forward on his face.
Murdock did not touch him then. He started to and then he heard the gun fall. When he could look round he saw Ginny sway and start to sag. He saw the whites of her eyes as her head went back and then, before he could reach her, she went down in a heap on top of the gun.
It took Murdock a while to collect himself. He was never sure how long he stood there nor was he aware of what he thought. He simply waited until his nerves quieted and he could breathe again, until he was sure he could walk without falling on his face. When he was ready he went to Arnold and knelt down, turning him over and feeling first for a pulse beat.
At first he thought he felt one. Then he decided it was his own heart beat he was counting. He unbuttoned the white-piped vest to look for some wound and see if there was any bleeding. He could find nothing in the torso, no mark on the head, but it was a minute or more before he thought to glance up at the wall.
He rose slowly then, having no further capacity for incredulity, and saw three widely spaced holes in the woodwork. Only when he stood up to them, and realized that all three were a good six inches over his head, did he understand what had happened to Wilbur Arnold.
In a fit of hysterical aberration and intent on vengeance, Ginny had seized upon the gun. And with no experience in such things she had jerked at the trigger three times, having no idea the shots were wild when she saw her husband collapse, but slipping into a faint as reaction hit her.
As for Arnold, his heart had simply stopped. Whether from the exertion of tipping the desk, the excitement of the moment, the shock of seeing his wife aim and fire at him or a combination of all three, the strain had proved too much for him. He had said earlier that he was living on borrowed time and to Murdock it seemed that he had finally overdrawn his account.…
Ginny was still unconscious when Murdock picked her up and stretched her on the divan. He let her head remain flat and flipped the skirt of the trailing housecoat over her bare and shapely legs. Making no attempt to revive her then he stepped directly to the tray that she had brought in when she had been playing hostess less than an hour before.
He poured the drink he had refused earlier, two ounces of Scotch which he took neat, and then splashed a little soda into the glass for a chaser. He went to the desk and straightened the chair Arnold had overturned. Then he sank gratefully into it, a glance at his watch telling him that he had plenty of time to make the final edition.
It did occur to him as he dialed his number that the pictures he intended to take might never see print, but he had the satisfaction in knowing that, in postponing his call, his story would be right. He was quite content to let the police take it from there.
THE END
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copyright © 1948, 1949 by George Harmon Coxe
978-1-4532-3335-1
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