William Haggard - The New Black Mask (No 5)

“Won’t your husband think that’s odd?”

“He never goes into the den after dinner. When you leave, break the window in the kitchen door.”

“Why?”

She bearded as if she were proud of her idea. “That way it won’t look as though it was unlocked to begin with.”

“Clever. Won’t your husband hear it?”

“He’s a sound sleeper, and our bedroom's upstairs on the other side of the house.”

“Does he have a gun?”

“A gun? Yes. Why?”

“There’s always a chance he’ll wake up. A chance he’ll hear me. Which means I’ve got to bring a gun.”

“No! You won’t need it — he’ll never hear you, and if he does I’ll keep him in the bedroom.”

“I’m sorry, but..

“Please, I promise you, you won’t need a gun. I’ll… I’ll unload his.”

“Bringing it doesn’t mean I have to use it.”

“I…”

“Insurance, that’s all. If you know I’ve got a gun, you’ll be doubly sure I won’t be bothered.”

She sat for a moment, looking worried. “All right. But please, no shooting.”

“No shooting. Any pets?”

“No. How can I reach you afterward?”

He scribbled a number on a corner of the paper place mat, tore it off, and handed it to her. “Call this number. If I’m not there, there’ll be someone who’ll tell you how to reach me. Memorize it and throw it away.”

She nodded and stuck the note in her purse. “1636 Marion Court. Two a.m. You won’t forget?”

“I won’t forget.”

The following night he parked his car, a dark blue midsized sedan, four blocks from 1636 Marion and walked to the house. He was relieved to see that it was a good fifty yards between houses and relieved to hear no bayings of dogs as he walked up the driveway and around to the kitchen door. He slipped on his gloves and tried the knob. It was unlocked, as she’d promised, and opened smoothly and quietly. He listened, but the house was still. Closing the door behind him, he took a penlight from his pocket and flashed it low around the room, quickly spotting the entrance to the den. The door was open, and on the desk was a brown leather box. He opened the lid and smiled as the jewelry danced in the light. It was always tempting, but he’d never yet succumbed. With this batch, though, it would be hard, very hard.

His head shot up as he heard the noise, a low squeak, as of a settling floorboard. But he knew the difference between a settling sound and one made by someone’s foot. He flicked off the penlight and reached for the .38 Special in his armpit.

“Hello?” The voice was a whisper, high and near. “Is that you… Joe?” She said the name as though she knew it was false.

He held the light out at his side and turned it on. She was standing empty-handed in the doorway, a cranberry-colored robe wrapped around her. She blinked as the light hit her eyes. “Jesus,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“I was nervous. I couldn’t stay in bed. I wanted to make sure you got in all right.”

“Of course I did. I thought you were going to stay with your husband.”

“Oh, he’s sleeping, don’t worry.” She pointed to the box. “Those are the jewels.”

“I figured.”

“And there was another piece I wore today that I forgot to put in the box…” Her hand went into the pocket of her robe and came out with a small pistol that fired twice, throwing bullets sharply into his chest so that he staggered back and hit the wall of bookcases, dropping his own pistol he’d been loosely, confidently holding. He slumped to the floor, books plopping on either side of him like giant raindrops. He didn’t have to see the blood to know he was dying.

With the same surprising speed with which she’d drawn the gun, she crossed to him from the doorway, knelt, and picked up his .38. He tried to make a grab for it, but only his fingers would move, and those too slowly. “Why?” he asked, tasting blood.

“You’ll see. You deserve that much.” She crossed to the doorway, turned on the room light, and shouted. “Tom!” There was silence. “Tom!” She wrapped a handkerchief around the hand that held the gun.

A muffled cry answered her from somewhere in the house.

“Come here!” I’m in the den!”

“What is it? For crissake, it’s after two…”

“Just come in here! Something’s not right…” She walked over to where he’d been standing when she’d shot him and looked at him. “Now you get it?”

A few seconds later Tom walked through the doorway, and she shot him in the forehead with the .38. Then she wiped the other pistol and put it in her husband’s dead hand. “You’ll get yours back in a minute,” she said to the man dying against the bookcase. “I’ve got a couple of things to do first.”

He listened to her call the police on the kitchen phone, thinking how frenzied and horrified she seemed. The last sound he heard was the sharp clatter of glass as she broke the window in the kitchen door. From the outside, of course.