Lawrence Block - Enough Rope

“Wednesday or Thursday night,” he said. “Wednesday I’ll be playing poker. It’s my regular game and it’ll last until two or three in the morning. It always does, and I’ll make certain that this is no exception. On Thursday, my wife and I are invited to a dinner party and we’ll be playing bridge afterward. That won’t last past midnight, so Wednesday would be better—”

“Wednesday’s fine with me.”

“She lives alone and she’s almost always home by ten. As a matter of fact she rarely leaves the house. I don’t blame her, it’s a beautiful house.” He pursed his lips. “But forget that. The earlier in the evening you do the job, the better it is for me — in case doctors really can determine time of death—”

“I’ll call the police.”

“How’s that?”

“After she’s dead I’ll give the police an anonymous phone call, tip them off. That way they’ll discover the body while you’re still at the poker game. That lets you out completely.”

He nodded approval. “That’s damned intelligent,” he said. “You know something? I’m thrilled you and I ran into each other. I don’t know your name and I don’t want to know your name, but I sure like your style. Wednesday night?”

“Wednesday night,” I agreed. “You’ll hear it on the news Thursday morning, and by then your troubles will be over.”

“Fantastic,” he said. “Oh, one other thing.” He flashed the shark’s smile. “If she suffers,” he said, “that’s perfectly all right with me.”

She didn’t suffer.

I did it with a knife. I told her I was a burglar and that she wouldn’t be hurt if she cooperated. It was not the first lie I ever told in my life. She cooperated, and when her attention was elsewhere I stabbed her in the heart. She died with an expression of extreme puzzlement on her none-too-pretty face, but she didn’t suffer, and that’s something.

Once she was dead I went on playing the part of the burglar. I ransacked the house, throwing books from their shelves and turning drawers over and generally making a dreadful mess. I found quite a bit of jewelry, which I ultimately put down a sewer, and I found several hundred dollars in cash, which I did not.

After I’d dropped the knife down another sewer and the white cotton gloves down yet a third sewer, I called the police. I said I’d heard sounds of a struggle coming from a particular house, and I supplied the address. I said that two men had rushed from the house and had driven away in a dark car. No, I could not identify the car further. No, I had not seen the license plate. No, I did not care to give my name.

The following dayI spoke to Vivian briefly on the telephone. “Things are going well,” I said.

“I’m so glad, darling.”

“Things are going to work out for us,” I said.

“You’re wonderful. You know that, don’t you? Absolutely wonderful.”

On Saturday weplayed a mere three games of handball. He won the first, as usual, but astonishingly I beat him in the second game, my first victory over him, and I went on to beat him again in the third. It was then that he suggested that we call it a day. Perhaps he simply felt off his game, or wanted to reduce the chances of someone’s noticing the two of us together. On the other hand, he had said at our first meeting that he liked to win. Conversely, one might suppose that he didn’t like to lose.

Over a couple of beers he said, “Well, you did it. I knew you’d do it and at the same time I couldn’t actually believe you would. Know what I mean?”

“I think so.”

“The police didn’t even hassle me. They checked my alibi, of course — they’re not idiots. But they didn’t dig too deep because they seemed so certain it was a burglary. I’ll tell you something, it was such a perfectly faked burglary that I even began to get the feeling that that was what happened. Just a coincidence, like. You chickened out and a burglar just happened to do the job.”

“Maybe that’s what happened,” I suggested.

He looked at me, then grinned slyly. “You’re one hell of a guy,” he said. “Cool as a cucumber, aren’t you? Tell me something. What was it like, killing her?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Hell of a guy. You realize something? You have the advantage over me. You know my name. From the newspapers. And I still don’t know yours.”

“You’ll know it soon enough,” I said with a smile. “From the newspapers.”

“Fair enough.”

I gave him a slip of paper. Like the one he’d given me, it had an address block-printed in pencil. “Wednesday would be ideal,” I said. “If you don’t mind missing your poker game.”

“I wouldn’t have to miss it, would I? I’d just get there late. The poker game gives me an excuse to get out of my house, but if I’m an hour late getting there my wife’ll never know the difference. And even if she knew I wasn’t where I was supposed to be, so what? What’s she gonna do, divorce me and cut herself out of my money? Not likely.”

“I’ll be having dinner with a client,” I said. “Then he and I will be going directly to a business meeting. I’ll be tied up until fairly late in the evening — eleven o’clock, maybe midnight.”

“I’d like to do it around eight,” he said. “That’s when I normally leave for the poker game. I can do it and be drawing to an inside straight by nine o’clock. How does that sound?”

I allowed that it sounded good to me.

“I guess I’ll make it another fake burglary,” he said. “Ransack the place, use a knife. Let them think it’s the same crazy burglar striking again. Or doesn’t that sound good to you?”

“It might tend to link us,” I said.

“Oh.”

“Maybe you could make it look like a sex crime. Rape and murder. That way the police would never draw any connection between the two killings.”

“Brilliant,” he said. He really seemed to admire me now that I’d committed a murder and won two games of handball from him.

“You wouldn’t actually have to rape her. Just rip her clothing and set the scene properly.”

“Is she attractive?” I admitted that she was, after a fashion. “I’ve always sort of had fantasies about rape,” he said, carefully avoiding my eyes as he spoke. “She’ll be home at eight o’clock?”

“She’ll be home.”

“And alone?”

“Absolutely.”

He folded the slip of paper, put it into his wallet, dropped bills from his wallet on the table, swallowed what remained of his beer, and got to his feet. “It’s in the bag,” he said. “Your troubles are over.”

“Our troubles are over,” I told Vivian.

“Oh, darling,” she said. “I can hardly believe it. You’re the most wonderful man in the world.”

“And a sensational handball player,” I said.

I left myhouse Wednesday night at half past seven. I drove a few blocks to a drugstore and bought a couple of magazines, then went to a men’s shop next door and looked at sport shirts. The two shirts I liked weren’t in stock in my size. The clerk offered to order them for me but I thought it over and told him not to bother. “I like them,” I said, “but I’m not absolutely crazy about them.”

I returned to my house. My handball partner’s car was parked diagonally across the street. I parked my own car in the driveway and used my key to let myself in the front door. From the doorway I cleared my throat, and he spun around to face me, his eyes bulging out of his head.

I pointed to the body on the couch. “Is she dead?”

“Stone dead. She fought and I hit her too hard...” He flushed a deep red, then he blinked. “But what are you doing here? Don’t you remember how we planned it? I don’t understand why you came here tonight of all nights.”