by Marvin Kaye
He took a plastic bag from the ambulance supplies and put the woman’s cell phone in it. Then he told the EMT to get a blood sample immediately.
His smartphone rang. “Morning, Septimus, this is Tom Fishburne,” said the policeman on the other end. “St. Clair is an estate agent with Withers Properties, Ltd. Her husband is Simon St. Clair, a professor of Ethnology.”
“Hello, Tom, thanks much. Any other info on the husband?”
“He has a specialty in Amazonian Indian tribal culture.”
Bracegirdle cleared his throat. “Right. Send someone round immediately to arrest Professor St. Clair on suspicion of attempted murder. His wife appears to have been poisoned with curare!”
Bracegirdle rang off and went around to the sit next to the ambulance driver. As they tore off down the street, the EMT in the back yelled, “How was she poisoned?”
“Her husband bent off a sharp piece of the casing on her cell phone and dipped it in curare. Then he called her during the cab ride to make sure she used it and scratched herself with the poisoned tip.” Bracegirdle toyed with his mustache. “Curare paralyzes the lungs immediately, but the victim remains alive for a time, unable to speak or breathe. Time is of the essence in these cases, so the driver probably saved her life by speeding. I say, talking of speeding, can you drop me off near St. Paul’s? I’m late for the ten o’clock.”
THE MAN IN THE OVERCOAT, by Marc Bilgrey
Bob Wilson looked out the window of his west side apartment and watched the last traces of sunlight fade over the Hudson River. Then he turned and looked over at his wife, Linda. She was sitting on a chair across from him, reading a copy of People magazine. Only she wasn’t reading it, he concluded, she was only pretending to read it. And every few seconds she would look up and stare off into space. What was that all about? Bob wondered, as he hid behind his copy of the Times. Then the phone rang.
“I’ll get it,” said Linda. Bob watched her walk to the phone and pick up the receiver. “Hello,” she said. “Oh, hi Joyce. Yes, uh huh, sure, that sounds fine. See you then. Bye.” She hung up the receiver and walked back to her chair and sat down. “That was Joyce,” she announced (as if there were some doubt), “she wants to meet me now.”
“Oh?” said Bob, trying to sound as casual as he could.
“Yes,” said Linda. “Ken’s out of town again and she’s lonely. It must be hard to be the wife of a traveling salesman.”
“This is the third time this month that he’s been away,” said Bob.
“I feel sorry for Joyce,” said Linda. “I really do. You don’t mind if I go over and see her, do you? I told her that I’d stop by.”
“Well . . .” said Bob, placing his newspaper on the table under his reading lamp.
“Oh, be a dear.”
“Doesn’t she have any other friends?”
“Nobody that she can talk to,” said Linda.
“I guess it’d be okay, but don’t stay out too late. I worry about you.”
“No reason to worry, all we do is sit around, drink tea and talk. Sometimes we play cards.”
“I just don’t like you walking around the city late at night.”
“I’ll try to get back early.”
“Okay,” said Bob. He watched Linda get up and walk to the hall closet.
“Joyce is such a nice woman,” said Linda, as she opened the closet and took out her coat.
“It sounds like her husband doesn’t treat her very well,” said Bob.
“Oh, he’s not a bad person. He’s just never there for her,” she said, as she put on her coat and buttoned it.
“I’d love to meet Joyce sometime,” said Bob.
“Oh, you will,” said Linda. “But she’s really going through a lousy time right now, what with her thinking about getting a divorce and her mother being sick and all.”
“Divorce is a big step.”
“I know, that’s what she’s always talking to me about. Actually, I think she’s a little envious of our marriage.”
“Hmmmm,” said Bob.
“I’ll see you later, dear,” said Linda, and kissed him on the cheek.
As soon as she was gone, Bob ran to his workroom, took a gun from inside a drawer, threw on a jacket and hat, locked the door and ran down the service stairs.
He arrived on the street just in time to see Linda get into a cab. He flagged down another cab and had the driver follow the first one. As Bob watched the taxi in front of him, he thought about the events leading up to all this. The day, four months ago, when Linda had told him that she’d met a woman at the supermarket named Joyce. After that, she and Joyce began talking on the phone constantly. Then there’d been the first time she’d said she was going over to her new friend’s apartment to visit. There had also been the reported conversations about Joyce’s husband, who was always on the road, and the thoughts that Joyce had had about divorcing him. Bob didn’t believe a word of it.
The cab in front of him turned and headed east. Initially, Bob had believed all of it. And why not? It’d sounded very credible. A lonely woman wanting company when her husband was away. The bad marriage. The long talks. But over the weeks that followed, the story started developing little holes. Why, for instance, did Linda always go over to Joyce’s, yet Joyce never visited Linda? Why did the visits become more frequent? And what about Linda’s moods? She’d often come back from a visit to Joyce, (one where Joyce had talked about her bad marriage), yet, Linda would seem happier than when she’d left. There were other things, little things that only a husband would notice. Like the laundry. The towels were folded differently, one crease instead of two. After fifteen years of marriage, why the change?
Bob put his hand in his pocket and felt the cold metal of the gun. In his heart he knew that there was no Joyce, but still, he decided, he would love to be proved wrong. He would love to see Joyce and then—but there was no Joyce and he knew it.
Linda’s cab stopped in front of a hotel. She got out and went inside the building.
Bob paid his driver and scurried into the lobby after her.
The hotel lobby had a couple of dozen people milling around. Bob was pleased about that, figuring that the activity would give him a good cover and make him stand out less. Bob pulled his hat over his face and watched Linda walk to the far end of the lobby and into the gift shop. Bob looked around and decided that the hotel had probably once been beautiful. But now the carpets were a bit worn and the walls needed new paint. He couldn’t help thinking that the place reminded him of his marriage.
Bob looked back at the gift shop and saw Linda flipping through a magazine. He scanned the crowd in the lobby, trying to spot who she was meeting. He saw a mix of foreign tourists, women with pink pant suits from the Midwest and flight attendants pulling suitcases on wheels.
Bob wondered what had driven Linda to this point. Was it the fact that he hadn’t gotten his much anticipated promotion at work? He’d been passed over in favor of someone in another department. It wasn’t Bob’s fault that “the someone” turned out to be the boss’ nephew. Bob wondered if maybe being in the office supply business wasn’t glamorous enough for Linda. He’d often thought of doing something else. Or maybe it was just that he should have taken her out more.
Bob snapped out of his daze as a burly looking man in a hat and overcoat walked into the gift shop. As soon as he stepped inside the small store, Linda looked up from her magazine and smiled. She put the magazine back on the rack, and then she and the man walked out of the store toward the elevator.
So, thought Bob, this was who she’d been seeing for the last four months. This man was “Joyce.”
Bob watched Linda exchange smiles with the man and then the elevator doors opened and they both stepped inside. A few other people also walked in. As soon as the doors closed, Bob went over to the elevat
or and looked at the indicator above it to see which floors it was stopping at. It stopped at four, nine, twelve and fifteen. He debated with himself what to do next.
Should he go upstairs and search for their room? There were an awful lot of rooms on the fourth, ninth, twelfth and fifteenth floors. Still, if he knocked on every door, he might eventually be able to find his wife and her lover. His wife and her lover! It was the first time he had actually thought those words. He didn’t like the sound of them.
He decided there must be a more practical idea than running around the whole hotel on a wild goose chase. The solution was simple. He’d just wait till they were finished and then, when they left, he’d follow the man in the overcoat.
Bob went to the gift shop and bought a newspaper. Then he found a chair that allowed him an unobstructed view of the hotel’s two elevators. He sat down and opened the paper. As he looked at an article he thought about his wife and her lover upstairs. The words on the page in front of him seemed meaningless, the letters, no more than little black marks.
Two hours later, the elevator doors opened and Linda and the man in the overcoat walked out. Bob covered his face with the newspaper. Through a pinhole, he watched his wife kiss the man and then the two of them walked out of the lobby. He ran after them.
Outside, the man in the overcoat placed Linda in a cab and then started walking downtown. Bob followed him. Half a block later, Bob reached into his pocket and felt his gun. Just touching it made him feel better.
Bob wondered how he would kill him. He didn’t want any witnesses, and he certainly didn’t want to get caught. Even though he thought it would be justifiable homicide, somehow, he didn’t think that the police would agree. There was nothing to worry about, he told himself. He would follow this man and then, when everything looked safe, he would let him have it. And afterwards, everything would be okay. He would go home and that would be the end of it.
The man continued downtown on the dark streets. Bob wondered if he should approach him and talk to him. Then it occurred to him that maybe Linda had shown the man a picture of him, then he’d suspect that there was a problem. No, it was too risky. He wanted to surprise him, pounce on him, and then do the deed. No use warning the son of a bitch what was in store for him.
Twenty blocks later, the man was still walking. Where was he going? Bob asked himself. Then the man turned and went down a side street. Ah, thought Bob, progress. A block later, the man looked at his watch, stopped and leaned against a building. Bob wondered if he should shoot him right there. Suppose he did and then someone grabbed him and held him down till the police came? Or worse, suppose a cop just happened to be walking by.
Or a couple of them pulled up in a patrol car. No, he decided, he’d wait for the right moment, then do it.
Bob stood a half a block away and watched the man in the overcoat lean against the building. Every so often the man would glance at his watch. Half an hour went by, then an hour. What was he waiting for, wondered Bob. Bob noticed that the street was now very quiet. No car passed, a lone pedestrian hurried by and then was gone. Now would be the time, thought Bob. Now would be the time to kill him.
Bob reached into his pocket and took out the gun. He slowly walked forward. He decided that he would thrust the gun into the man’s stomach and fire it. Then he wondered if he should say something first. Maybe something dramatic, like, “This is for Linda.” It was too corny, he decided. Besides, it had to be done quickly, and talk would just slow the whole thing down. Just do the job, then get away as fast as possible, he told himself.
Bob walked toward the man in the overcoat. The gun was at his side, shielded by his jacket and the darkness. He felt his heart begin to pound. He’d never killed anyone before and the thought of doing it now did not give him any pleasure. His right hand began to shake. He steadied it. Everything would be over in just a few seconds, he told himself, and then order would be restored to the world again.
Bob was only a few feet from the man now. He gripped the gun handle tightly and was just starting to bring the weapon up, away from his own body, when suddenly somebody walked out of the building. Bob froze, his arm dropped back to his side.
The man in the overcoat turned and followed the man who’d just left the building.
The new man was wearing a dark suit and was bald. The man in the overcoat caught up with him, then loudly called out to him, “Belson?”
The bald man turned and faced the man in the overcoat. “Yeah?” he said.
Then the man in the overcoat pulled out a gun and shot him. Belson screamed and fell to the ground. The man in the overcoat looked at him for a few seconds, then calmly walked down the street.
Bob didn’t move. He stared at the man on the sidewalk. Then, a few seconds later, he put the gun back into his pocket. He realized that he was so stunned that he didn’t know what to do. Should he follow the man in the overcoat? Before he could make a decision, he became aware of a crowd of people standing behind him.
“I saw the whole thing,” said a man. “This city’s going to hell,” said another. “Call an ambulance,” said a third.
Somebody kneeled down next to the man on the sidewalk and said, “It’s a little late for an ambulance.”
A man who stood next to Bob said “The guy who did this is someone you don’t want to mess with. That was Joey, Jr.”
“Y-you know him?” asked Bob.
“Well, I don’t know him personally,” said the man, “but everyone knows Joey. Where you been living, in a cave? He’s on the news all the time. He’s the head of organized crime in this town. Last year, he personally killed at least ten people. Who knows how many other hits he’s ordered that his men have carried out? The Feds can’t seem to stop him. But hey, I didn’t see nothing, if you get my drift. I got no idea who shot this poor bastard.” Then the man frowned and walked away.
Bob took another look at the dead man, then pushed through the crowd and went to the comer. An ambulance and a police car were just driving up. Bob walked another block, found a cab and went home.
Bob walked into his apartment, took off his jacket and hung it up in the closet.
“Hi honey,” said Linda, who was sitting on the couch.
“Hi,” said Bob, with no enthusiasm, as he walked into the living room. “Where you been?” said Linda.
“Uh, I just went out to take a walk,” said Bob, sitting down on a chair. “I was worried about you, this city’s so unsafe at night,” she said.
“Yeah, unsafe.”
“Aren’t you going to ask about Joyce?”
“Joyce?”
“My friend, Joyce.”
“Oh, yes, Joyce. How is she?”
“Well, she’s been better. Her mother’s still very sick. The doctors aren’t sure what’s going to happen. It’s a sad situation.”
“Yeah . . . sounds sad.”
“And Ken, you know, Joyce’s husband, he called while I was there. Apparently he’s going to be on the road for a week longer than he thought he’d be.”
“Uh, that’s too bad,” said Bob.
“Yeah, that’s what Joyce said, too. It’s hard being alone all the time. Joyce was so happy that I came over. She said that I brightened her whole night.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Huh?”
“I mean that she’s lucky to have a friend like you.”
“That’s what she’s always saying.” Linda looked at her watch. “Well, I’m a little tired. I think I’ll go to bed early tonight.”
“Okay,” said Bob.
Linda stood up and said, “I like Joyce a lot, but I must say that listening to all her problems can be a little tiring sometimes. Well, I’ll say good night now.”
“Night.”
Linda smiled and then walked out of the living room. Bob stared at the wall
for a couple of minutes, then, stood up, walked to the hall closet and opened the door. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out his gun. Then he walked into his workroom and closed the door.
He sat down at his desk, removed the bullets from the gun, then opened a drawer and placed the gun inside. He put the bullets back into their box and put the box near the gun. Then he closed the drawer and sat at his desk a while.
A little later, he got up and went into the bedroom. Linda was already asleep, a peaceful smile on her face. Bob got undressed and crawled into bed. It took him a long time to get to sleep and his dreams were not pleasant.
CARTOON, by Arno & Betancourt
GLASS EYE, by Hal Charles
Kelly Locke gritted her teeth as “The Game’s A-Foot” mug spilled coffee across her littered desk at WBAK-TV. It had been one of those days, and the young anchorwoman wondered if it were going to offer more evidence on the validity of Murphy’s Law. Wasn’t today supposed to be special? After all, it was Paul’s birthday, and to celebrate she had planned to cook her boyfriend a very private and romantic dinner.
Getting home to prepare the meal—and herself—should have been easy. But that was before Chuck Mann, her co-anchor on Newsteam 4’s The 6:00 Evening News had called in saying he was tied up with the flu—or, knowing Chuck, the floozy he couldn’t bear to leave. Her two-year-old Tiburon with its ten-year warranty had conked out when she had pulled into the station’s parking garage, and a freak electrical storm had disrupted the broadcast for twenty minutes. That’s when a lightning bolt had struck her, making her overly aware that she had forgotten to buy the Metro’s star centerfielder a birthday gift.
Finally she had caught a break or, at least, had thought so. Matt Locke, her father and the city’s Chief of Detectives, had promised to swing by the station after his shift and give her a ride home. As she bounded out of the elevator in her London fog, she spotted his very obvious unmarked sedan. At least he was waiting and she could make it home just in time, even if she were without a present.