by John Lutz
Walther's face became splotched with red, then the red merged with a mottled blue.
And that's when Alex's fingers began to lose their grip. He was bleeding terribly, weakening toward death, and the growing pain in his stomach and chest kept him from tensing and exerting all his power. He saw the glint of sudden hope, of animal cunning, in Walther's eyes as he realized what was happening. Slender fingers clamped Alex's wrists, waiting for the moment when they could push his hands away. Slowly the bluish color left Walther's complexion.
The fingers about Walther's neck were trembling now, losing control. Mustering his remaining strength Alex forced himself to rise to his knees.
Walther lay looking up at him; waiting, watching clinically, almost smiling.
Alex screamed something unintelligible, something scarcely human down at Walther. Then he lunged forward, downward, and with all the viciousness of his death agony sank his teeth deep into Walther's pink throat.
Outside, the dogs were patrolling the grounds.
Abridged
Wallace Deerborne tucked his dark umbrella under his arm and stepped down off the curb. Twenty percent chance of shower, the weather report had said. That was more risk than Wallace cared to chance in anything — his business ventures, his social life, crossing the street or the weather. All in all he'd been seldom rained on.
But into each life . . . as they say. And it was the rain in Wallace's life that caused him to be walking down Twelfth Street this cloudy evening.
He saw what he was looking for and stopped, putting his hands in the pockets of the light topcoat he was wearing, feeling a sudden chill in the dusk air. High above him a street light flickered and came on, and he observed that a few of the cars that passed now had their headlights on.
He breathed deeply, steadying himself, and his cool eyes focused again on the worn, almost unnoticeable sign that protruded over the sidewalk: H. MUDD, BOOKDEALER. Wallace tapped the pointed tip of his umbrella on the pavement and walked forward.
It was a small bookshop, with one narrow unlit display window. The darkened forms of several open magazines, pressed against the glass like huge moths, completely obscured the view inside from the street.
At first Wallace thought the bookshop was closed. But as he turned the knob the door opened with almost alarming ease.
The inside of the bookshop was old but well kept. On Wallace's right a magazine rack ran halfway down the wall and gave way to shelves of paperback novels. On the rear wall were shelves of hard covers behind an old and narrow staircase that led up to a closed door. Behind the wooden counter on Wallace's left the wall from floor to ceiling was one huge bookcase of hard covers, and behind the counter sat the gray-headed man.
The man rose from his chair, which creaked with the sudden absence of weight. At first Wallace thought he was a very old man, but on closer inspection he saw that the man behind the counter was one of those individuals whose age it is impossible to perceive. He could have been fifty; he could have been seventy. The lean, stooped body, the slender, lined face, told nothing.
"Help you?" The gray-headed man asked.
"I'm — uh — looking for a book," Wallace said, feeling immediately that it was a stupid statement. "A particular book."
The lean man's interest seemed to heighten. "Just what sort of book, sir?"
"Mystery," Wallace said. "A murder perhaps."
Dark eyes seemed to draw back in the older man's lined face, then came a guarded smile. "You wouldn't be Mr. Wallace Deerborne, would you?"
Wallace nodded.
"What makes you think you'll find the particular book you want at this particular bookshop, Mr. Deerborne?"
"Telephone calls, Mr. — Mudd, is it?"
"Horace Mudd," the old man said.
Wallace unbuttoned his coat, beginning to feel more at ease.
"And you are my anonymous caller, I take it?" Mudd waved a withered hand to indicate the entire shop. "You may take anything you want," he said to Wallace, "as long as you pay for it." He laughed a curious "Eh, eh, eh," that lapsed into a fit of violent coughing. Mudd swallowed hard, then looked at Wallace just as hard. "You want to kill your wife, don't you, Mr. Deer-borne?"
A tremor ran through Wallace's body. He knew it would be useless to ask Mudd where he'd gotten that information. Besides, easily a dozen people knew of Wallace's unhappy married state.
"I want to see one of the books you described on the phone," Wallace said noncommittally. "That is, if you were serious."
"Serious?" Mudd took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his lips. "Let me explain the situation to you, Mr. Deerborne. It's important that my clients have complete faith." With a practiced, darting gesture he returned the handkerchief to his pocket. "Many years ago my father was a guard at a very famous prison, and my father had an idea. For certain favors bestowed on my father, prisoners would get certain favors in return. As my father moved up the chain of prison administration these favors came sometimes in the form of pardons.
"All my father asked in return for these pardons was that the prisoner, always a convicted murderer, write everything about his crime and turn the papers over to my father. Through the years he obtained hundreds of such 'memoirs'."
"And of what use were they to him?" Wallace asked.
"Eh, eh!" There was scorn as well as amusement in Mudd's staccato laugh. "He turned them into a book, Mr. Deerborne, a volume of books, in fact." The seamed face turned to steal a glance at the front door as Mudd leaned farther over the scarred counter. "As you have no doubt heard, Mr. Deerborne, it is usually one mistake that leads to a murderer's apprehension. The most clever of caught murderers must look back and say, 'If only I hadn't done that, or if this hadn't happened'. What my father did, Mr. Deerborne, is reconstruct these most clever crimes on paper and carefully point out the pitfalls and how to avoid them."
"An expert's guide for successful murder," Wallace said. There was incredulity in his voice and he was surprised to find that he was breathing rather hard. He removed his hat, revealing thinning brown hair, and set it on the counter. "One thing that bothers me, Mr. Mudd. The co-authors of these books — all of them were failures."
Mudd smiled. "The first time, yes. But after my father saw to their paroles he kept in touch. Almost all of them, with the help of the books, went on to murder again successfully. It gets in your blood, I suppose." A wistful look came into Mudd's dark eyes. "My father himself had five wives, Mr. Deerborne. He was tried and acquitted two times."
Wallace's heart pounded as he thought of the thousands of injustices he'd suffered living with his ponderous, domineering wife, Hilda.
"Let me see the books," he asked, and there was a pleading quality to his hoarse voice.
"The price," Mudd said evenly, "is a thousand dollars."
Wallace looked into the dark eyes. "A bargain," he said with involuntary savagery.
Mudd nodded and walked out from behind the counter, his body still stooped in his shuffling gait. "Upstairs," he said. "Perhaps you could tell me something about your wife, Mr. Deerborne. It might be useful in helping us to select the correct volume."
"She's forty-two," Wallace said, "a nagging, overstuffed harpie who'd rather inflict pain than anything else in this world! A sadistic brute in woman form -"
"Now, Mr. Deerborne," Mudd interrupted, "nobody's as bad as all that."
They began to climb the narrow wooden stairs. "Tell me, does your wife have any serious physical infirmities?"
"A bad heart," Wallace said bitterly, "but a healthy one. Despite her whale-like size."
"Well, I think we'll find a solution to your problem in my volumes."
They reached the top of the stairs, and Mudd unlocked the door. He opened it into darkness, and his hand darted inside the doorframe and flicked the lightswitch.
The tiny room was unfurnished but for one heavy bookcase, and the ceiling was so low that both men had to keep their heads bent awkwardly. Mudd closed the door behind them, and they w
ent to the books.
There were thirty very thick volumes in all. Wallace noted the word INDEX printed on the cover of the first volume, which was also lettered ABD (Abduct) to BLU (Blunt instrument).
"Ah, now," Mudd said slowly and thoughtfully. His thin hand reached for Volume 27. "There are two volumes devoted completely to wife eliminations," he said to Wallace.
"Excellent."
"The fact that your wife is fat," Mudd added apologetically, "can definitely be worked to your advantage." He handed the heavy book to Wallace. "I'm quite sure you'll find several possible methods in there, and be able to choose the one best suited to your circumstances."
"I'm sure," Wallace said. He looked at the book with something like awe.
Mudd laughed his brittle cackle. "In case you're worrying, Mr. Deerborne, only three sets of books were printed, and mine is the last of them. I know for a fact that the others were destroyed over twenty years ago."
"If they're old," Wallace said uneasily, "isn't it possible -"
"Oh, don't let that shake your faith, Mr. Deerborne. Age isn't detrimental to a classic. My father's work has a timeless quality. The books are still quite useful even more
useful now that age has completely obscured the fact that they exist." As he spoke Mudd opened the door, ushering Wallace out.
Wallace tucked Volume 27 under his arm and preceded the stooped man down the stairs. "About payment," Wallace said as they set foot back on the ground floor.
"As you must have faith," Mudd said, "so I have complete faith in the wisdom of the book's contents. If you follow instructions and use common sense your plan will succeed. So I'll charge you five hundred dollars when you return the book next week, the other five hundred after the murder's been committed successfully. In case of complications, of course, you'll pay after a favorable autopsy, coroner's jury verdict or trial acquittal." Mudd grinned crookedly. "Let me assure you that is the worst that can happen."
Wallace nodded, running his fingertips lightly over the book's grained cover.
Mudd shuffled back behind the counter. "Let me put that in a bag for you," he said, motioning toward the book. "Not that it would appear suspicious anyway."
Wallace handed the book over. Mudd's confidence was beginning to rub off on him and he felt much better. He got his pipe out of his pocket and fired it up as the older man slid the book into a brown paper bag. "In a week, then," Wallace said around the pipe stem, "I'll return the book here with the five hundred dollars."
Mudd nodded, laying the bagged book on the counter. "If there are customers in the shop just place the book and the money here and leave."
Wallace slipped the book into the broad pocket of his topcoat and put on his hat while the older man came out from behind the counter to see him to the door.
Wallace paused out on the sidewalk and turned.
"I wonder," he asked casually, "just out of curiosity's sake, how did you come to be in such an unusual business? I mean, a bookshop that rents — right here in the center of town."
"I inherited it from my father, Mr. Deerborne." There was a faint movement, like a change of light, in the dark eyes. "He died quite a long time ago. Suddenly."
Wallace Deerborne closed the apartment door behind him. He placed his umbrella and coat in the hall closet and walked hesitantly into the living room.
Hilda was sitting in her favorite easy chair, her slippered feet propped up on the footstool. She looked up coolly from the pages of the romance magazine she was reading and her red, petulant lips opened with surprising mobility as she spoke. "Damn you, you're late!"
"Work," Wallace said. He slumped into the attractive but uncomfortable modern sofa and tried to relax.
"You never worked before on Thursdays, Wallace." Wallace bent over and loosened his shoelaces. "Well, you know that Miss Bibsly who works at the office?"
"Tall blonde thing with bangs?"
Wallace Deerborne nodded. "I was at her apartment making love to her."
Hilda's mouth opened wide and the magazine slipped from her spacious lap. "Hah! That's a laugh and a half. A girl like that wouldn't touch a forty-five-year-old has-been like you with her gloves on! You can't do better than me, Wallace!"
"I suppose not," Wallace said.
Hilda replaced the magazine on her lap with an aggravated glance at Wallace as if he were to blame for its falling.
"Supper was ready an hour ago," she said haughtily. "You didn't expect me to keep the meat and potatoes warm for you while you were working over those silly reports at your office, did you?"
"No," Wallace said. "I'll eat it cold."
"You'll eat it not at all," Hilda said. "I ate it. Things aren't going to go to waste around here just because you don't give a damn enough to even try to come home on time."
"All right," Wallace said wearily, "I'll fix something later."
"You will is right! I guess you've forgotten this is the night of my sister's bridge club. I'm late already!"
"You're right, dear. I had forgotten. It won't happen again."
"Damn you, Wallace! All you think about is that stupid job of yours, or gardening, or your idiot tropical fish!"
"I don't have tropical fish anymore," Wallace said. "You flushed them all down the toilet."
Hilda's eyes shone. "One by one, Wallace! And I enjoyed every minute of it!" She heaved herself out of the chair, ignoring the magazine this time as it fell to the floor. With a last disdainful look at Wallace she walked toward the bedroom, her chins quivering with each heavy step. Within minutes Hilda emerged from the bedroom, balanced precariously on high heels, wearing her imitation fur stole. "I'll be back at eleven," she said. "What are you going to do after supper, Wallace?"
Wallace ran a hand through his thin hair, idly considering Miss Bibsly as he never had before. "I think I'll go to bed," he said. "I think I'll go to bed and read before I go to sleep."
Wallace did read, for hours, and even that night he chose a plan from Volume 27. It seems there is a deadly poison that can be made from very common ingredients and the sappy substance from a tropical plant. This same substance, however, can be extracted from a very common American plant and used to make the poison.
This was the discovery of the murderer who wrote so long ago for Volume 27. He'd administered this poison to his aging brother, and it had worked beautifully. Within a half hour the brother had died, with symptoms exactly duplicating those of a heart attack. Only the most careful and expert autopsy could detect the poison, and even then the doctor had to know what he was looking for.
The long ago murderer's mistake was that he'd recently returned from doing medical research in the tropics, and as luck would have it one of the examining doctors had heard of the rare poison. This known familiarity with the tropics, combined with the fact that the dead brother had no history of a bad heart, aroused enough suspicion for the careful autopsy that was necessary.
But other than that, Wallace thought, as he hid the book in the back of one of his dresser drawers, it would have worked. Wallace closed the drawer and smiled. Volume 27 had some very good suggestions to avoid the few possible pitfalls of the plan, and Wallace had never been to the tropics.
It was definitely better than the meat cleaver and police dog plan, Wallace thought as he climbed back into bed. He was still smiling as he fell asleep.
Three days later Wallace Deerborne returned the book to Mudd, along with the five hundred dollars. There was a customer in the bookshop at the time, an old lady, so Wallace just set the brown paper bag containing book and money on the wooden counter and nodded at Mudd. The nod was returned by a slight smile over the old lady's shoulder, and Wallace left the shop.
As the door closed behind him the thought crossed Wallace's mind that he didn't really have to pay Mudd the second five hundred. After all, they didn't have a written contract. For that matter, he hadn't really had to pay the first half of the money.
Wallace shook these ideas off, however, shuddering at the thought of how
Horace Mudd might collect.
Wallace began the preliminary phase of the plan that very night, seeing that a magazine containing an article on the relationship of obesity and heart trouble fell into Hilda's hands. During the next few weeks this subject cropped up with mysterious coincidence many times, and when the seed of anxiety was firmly planted in Hilda's mind Wallace made his first important move.
It was a small dose, far from lethal, and Wallace waited the necessary half hour or so after lunch for it to happen. He'd placed the poison in her strawberry shortcake.
Her only comment was that the whipped cream topping tasted a bit flat.
And then it happened, just as Volume 27 said it would. Hilda suddenly gasped and clutched at her chest, leaning forward and supporting herself with her other huge arm on the table.
As Wallace rose to help her he noted that her complexion was flushed and splotchy. Great concern was expressed — Wallace called Hilda "dear" as often as possible in the presence of others — and before the doctor left he recommended an electro-cardiogram and thorough examination, even though Hilda seemed to have recovered nicely. A coronary stroke, however mild, was something that must be looked into.
The results of the examination were what Wallace expected. Hilda's heart showed some very minor and temporary damage from her recent stroke, but other than that she seemed healthy. She would have to try to reduce, the doctor said, for her overweight was probably what caused the mild attack. Hilda was released from the hospital with that caution, and a history of heart trouble was established.
Only Wallace knew that three weeks later a massive heart attack would take the life of his massive wife.
The funeral was small and touching. ". . . A woman dearly loved . . ." Wallace heard the minister say, as the mourners bowed their heads for the eulogy. There had been no trouble or suspicion; the same doctor who had conducted Hilda's examination had also signed the death certificate.