Lawrence Block - Enough Rope

“You’ll live,” he said finally.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“Don’t thank me. I’ll have to report this, you know.”

“I wish you wouldn’t. I’m... I’m under a psychiatrist’s care. It was more an accident than anything else, really.”

“Twenty pills?” The doctor shrugged. “You’d better pay me now,” he said. “I hate to send bills to potential suicides. It’s risky.”

“This is afine shotgun for the price,” the clerk said. “Now, if you want to get fancy, you can get yourself a weapon with a lot more range and accuracy. For just a few dollars more—”

“No, this will be satisfactory. And I’ll need a box of shells.”

The clerk put the box on the counter. “Or three boxes for—”

“Just the one.”

“Sure thing,” the clerk said. He drew the registry ledger from beneath the counter, opened it, set it on the top of the counter. “You’ll have to sign right there,” he said, “to keep the state happy.” He checked the signature when the man had finished writing. “Now I’m supposed to see some identification, Mr. Wright. Just a driver’s license if you’ve got it handy.” He checked the license, compared the signatures, jotted down the license number, and nodded, satisfied.

“Thank you,” said the man, when he had received his change. “Thank you very much.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wright. I think you’ll get a lot of use out of that gun.”

“I’m sure I will.”

At nine o’clockthat night Edward Wright heard his back doorbell ring. He walked downstairs, glass in hand, finished his drink, and went to the door. He was a tall man, with sunken eyes topped by thick black eyebrows. He looked outside, recognized his visitor, hesitated only momentarily, and opened the door.

His visitor poked a shotgun into Edward Wright’s abdomen.

“Mark—”

“Invite me in,” the man said. “It’s cold out here.”

“Mark, I don’t—”

“Inside.”

In the livingroom Edward Wright stared into the mouth of the shotgun and knew that he was going to die.

“You killed her, Ed,” the visitor said. “She wanted a divorce. You couldn’t stand that, could you? I told her not to tell you. I told her it was dangerous, that you were nothing but an animal. I told her to run away with me and forget you but she wanted to do the decent thing and you killed her.”

“You’re crazy!”

“You made it good, didn’t you? Made it look like an accident. How did you do it? You’d better tell me, or this gun goes off.”

“I hit her.”

“You hit her and killed her? Just like that?”

Wright swallowed. He looked at the gun, then at the man. “I hit her a few times. Quite a few times. Then I threw her down the cellar stairs. You can’t go to the police with this, you know. They can’t prove it and they wouldn’t believe it.”

“We won’t go to the police,” the man said. “I didn’t go to them at the beginning. They didn’t know of a motive for you, did they? I could have told them a motive, but I didn’t go, Edward. Sit down at your desk, Edward. Now. That’s right. Take out a sheet of paper and a pen. You’d better do as I say, Edward. There’s a message I want you to write.”

“You can’t—”

“Write I can’t stand it any longer. This time I won’t fail, and sign your name.”

“I won’t do it.”

“Yes, you will, Edward.” He pressed the gun against the back of Edward Wright’s shaking head.

“You wouldn’t do it,” Wright said.

“But I would.”

“You’ll hang for it, Mark. You won’t get away with it.”

“Suicide, Edward.”

“No one would believe I would commit suicide, note or no note. They won’t believe it.”

“Just write the note, Edward. Then I’ll give you the gun and leave you with your conscience. I definitely know what you’ll do.”

“You—”

“Just write the note. I don’t want to kill you, Edward. I want you to write the note as a starter, and then I’ll leave you here.”

Wright did not exactly believe him, but the shotgun poised against the back of his head left him little choice. He wrote the note, signed his name.

“Turn around, Edward.”

He turned, stared. The man looked very different. He had put on false eyebrows and a wig, and he had done something to his eyes, put makeup around them.

“Do you know who I look like now, Edward?”

“No.”

“I look like you, Edward. Not exactly like you, of course. Not close enough to fool people who know you, but we’re both about the same height and build. Add the character tags, the eyebrows and the hair and the hollow eyes, and put them on a man who introduces himself as Edward Wright and carries identification in that name, and what have you got? You’ve got a good imitation of you, Edward.”

“You’ve been impersonating me.”

“Yes, Edward.”

“But why?”

“Character development,” the man said. “You just told me you’re not the suicidal type and no one will believe it when you kill yourself. However, you’d be surprised at your recent actions, Edward. There’s a policeman who had to talk you out of jumping off the Morrissey Bridge. There’s the psychiatrist who has been treating you for suicidal depression, complete with some classic dreams and fantasies. And there’s the doctor who had to pump your stomach this afternoon.” He prodded Edward’s stomach with the gun.

“Pump my—”

“Yes, your stomach. A most unpleasant procedure, Edward. Do you see what I’ve gone through on your account? Sheer torture. You know, I was worried that my wig might slip during the ordeal, but these new epoxy resins are extraordinary. They say you can even wear a wig swimming, or in the shower.” He rubbed one of the false eyebrows with his forefinger. “See how it stays on? And very lifelike, don’t you think?”

Edward didn’t say anything.

“All those things you’ve been doing, Edward. Funny you can’t recall them. Do you remember buying this shotgun, Edward?”

“I—”

“You did, you know. Not an hour ago, you went into a store and bought this gun and a box of shells. Had to sign for it. Had to show your driver’s license, too.”

“How did you get my license?”

“I didn’t. I created it.” The man chuckled. “It wouldn’t fool a policeman, but no policeman ever saw it. It certainly fooled the clerk, though. He copied that number very carefully. So you must have bought that gun after all, Edward.”

The man ran his fingers through his wig. “Remarkably lifelike,” he said again. “If I ever go bald, I’ll have to get myself one of these.” He laughed. “Not the suicidal type? Edward, this past week you’ve been the most suicidal man in town. Look at all the people who will swear to it.”

“What about my friends? The people at the office?”

“They’ll all help it along. Whenever a man commits suicide, his friends start to remember how moody he’s been lately. Everybody always wants to get into the act, you know. I’m sure you’ve been acting very shocked and distraught over her death. You’d have to play the part, wouldn’t you? Ah, you never should have killed her, Edward. I loved her, even if you didn’t. You should have let her go, Edward.”

Wright was sweating. “You said you weren’t going to murder me. You said you would leave me alone with the gun—”

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” the man said, and very quickly, very deftly, he jabbed the gun barrel into Wright’s mouth and pulled the trigger. Afterward he arranged things neatly enough, removed one of Wright’s shoes, positioned his foot so that it appeared he had triggered the shotgun with his big toe. Then he wiped his own prints from the gun and managed to get Wright’s prints all over the weapon. He left the note on top of the desk, slipped the psychiatrist’s business card into Wright’s wallet, stuffed the bill of sale for the gun into Wright’s pocket.