Тимоти Уилльямз - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 126, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 769 & 770, September/October 2005

“We don’t have the money,” Miriam said. “It’s already transferred to a bank miles away.”

He held his arms straight out, grasping the gun in both hands as he’d seen cops on TV do. “I don’t believe you. I mean what I say.”

Now Vivian laughed. “Professor, you wouldn’t shoot a damn jackrabbit. You certainly wouldn’t shoot two women.”

He cocked the pistol and held it straight out for another couple of minutes, then dropped his arms to his side. She was right; he couldn’t shoot them. They had won again. He felt like crying, but not in front of them. He backed to the door, turned, and left, almost tripping as he ran down the stairs. Outside, he looked up at the apartment. The two of them were framed in the window, laughing at him.

Driving home, he beat the steering wheel with his fists in rage and frustration. Never had he been so furious; never had he felt so depressed and defeated. He was sure his money had not been sent off anywhere between nine o’clock last night and ten o’clock this morning, yet he had been unable to get it back. He really should have shot those harpies and searched the premises. But no, if he’d fired the little gun, others in the building undoubtedly would have heard and come to investigate.

Damn them! Damn the whole world! Damn his life since he married Reva. Not one thing had gone right since then, not one plan or dream. His truncated education had kept him from getting a decent job, he would never have a chair of philosophy named for him, or be surrounded by a large, happy family, or... No need to go any further. Neither child nor chair. All because Reva had tricked him into marrying her. She was the one he should shoot for lousing up his life.

Hey, now! Hey, now!

The dream is parent to the desire and the desire is parent to the action.

He pulled over to the curb in front of a row of small starter houses. He didn’t dare drive while his mind was speeding so far ahead of him. The teller at the bank had said something about kid-napping when he withdrew the hundred thousand. She would remember that. What if Reva disappeared and he reported that she had been kidnapped and that he’d paid two women ransom money to get her back? They could deny it until hell went subzero, but there was the teller to prove...

Would it work? Could he get away with it?

He would have to kill Reva, of course. He could shoot her, or strangle her, or give her poison — no, not that, because he’d have to buy the poison and some clerk would remember him. Anyway, the means of killing her was not the main problem. What would he do with her body? He didn’t think getting rid of a body was as easy as some mystery writers assumed. If he buried her in the backyard, there would be freshly turned earth. If he dumped her out in the woods or alongside a country road, there was the danger of being seen. And if he put her body in the trunk of his car, even in a plastic bag, there would be fibers or some damn thing that would give it away, technology being what it is today. And, could he trust himself when questioned by the police about her disappearance, as he surely would be, to play the convincing role of distraught husband? He thought that over for a minute or two and then decided, yes, he could manage that. To get rid of Reva he could manage anything. The thought of life without her was very enticing. Peace, perfect peace... at home, in his mind, in his soul. Solitude and serenity after all these years of trial and torment.

But how would he murder her? If he couldn’t shoot two comparative strangers, would he be able to shoot his wife of thirty years? He imagined her sitting on the three-legged stool in the kitchen, doing some mundane task like opening frozen stuffed peppers. With the little gun in hand, barefoot so as not to startle her, he would get close enough so he couldn’t possibly miss, and he would fire. He visualized her jumping as the bullet hit, then falling off the stool. The expression on her face would be one of shock...

But no, somehow that didn’t seem to be the way to go about it.

Socrates was a savvy old sage. What would be the Socratic method of murder?

Then it came to him, almost as though his idol had reached down from some celestial sphere and planted it in his head. He would put the body in the car, not in the trunk, not in a bag in the backseat, but sitting up on the passenger side of the car. That’s where Reva rode when he was driving, so it would not be unusual to find strands of hair, fingerprints, fabric from her clothes, whatever, right there. As for the method, there couldn’t be any blood. All he had to do now was decide how two women would go about killing another woman.

The killing part wasn’t nearly as hard as he had expected. While she was bending over the oven to remove two frozen dinners, he slipped the noose over her head and pulled and pulled and pulled. He didn’t even have to look at her face as he did it. It was not a pleasant ordeal for him, but he managed to get through it, scarcely glancing at her when she was prone on the floor, tongue hanging out, face blue. He picked her up, took her to the garage, and put her in the car. At eleven P.M. he drove out into the country and dumped her body in a ditch beside a dirt road.

He waited until early Sunday morning before calling the police. He told the woman who answered his 911 call, “My wife has been kidnapped.” The police were at his house in exactly eight minutes. There was a detective lieutenant named Sidney Miller and another cop named Thomas Salter.

Their first question was: “If your wife was kidnapped Friday, why did you wait until today to call the police?”

“I was told not to call anyone, that she’d be returned last night.”

“Are you sure she didn’t leave home of her own volition?” Lieutenant Miller asked.

“No, no!” Travis didn’t have to pretend to be upset; he was. He had to make these men believe him. “She was taken by two women, a mother and daughter. I can give you their names and address. They asked for ransom of one hundred thousand dollars and said if I paid by yesterday they would have her home by last night. I waited up all night and then called you this morning.”

The two cops gave each other a fleeting glance. “You paid them the hundred thousand?” the younger one said.

“I went to First Bank on Friday and got the money out. The teller, Thelma something, asked me if there was a kidnapping. She thought it was a joke, but it wasn’t. If you don’t believe me, ask Thelma. I took it to the woman yesterday morning and I’ve waited ever since...” He broke off and bowed his head and let his hands tremble a little.

“Give me the names and address of the women. Did anyone see you when you took the money to them?” Miller asked

“I don’t know. They live in that run-down apartment building on Boxler Street. It’s possible someone saw me go in or come out.”

“We’ll also check the bank teller,” Salter said.

Travis felt that right now he was their number-one suspect. Or maybe it was just their manner of questioning.

“Why would these two want to kidnap your wife?” Miller asked. “Any reason other than money? Do you know them?”

“The daughter was in my philosophy class at Miss Barclay’s School. She wants to transfer to another school and doesn’t have enough money. I guess her credit’s not good enough that she can borrow a large sum. That’s the only reason I can think of.” It was as close to the truth as he’d been yet. He looked straight in the eyes of first one and then the other cop. “Please find my wife. Those two women are crazy. There’s no telling what they might do... what they’ve done already.” They stayed another ten or fifteen minutes, asking questions about where Travis worked, what he taught, what his wife did, then went back to the alleged (their word) kidnapping: Where was your wife when she was taken? Was she in the house by herself? Why didn’t he get in touch with the police as soon as the Dalroys asked for ransom?