John MacDonald - The Good Old Stuff

It was hard for him to conceal his excitement and anticipation. At five o’clock he got up and dressed, declaring that he felt much better. In fact, he said, he was famished.

At seven o’clock, with the dishes washed, Myra sat across the room from him and fell asleep, making no attempt to read.

“Myra!” he said, quite loudly. “Myra!”

She didn’t stir. Everything up to this point had been preparation. And now he realized that the actual commission of the deed required no particular call on his strength and determination. Actually it was as though she were already dead. He opened the kitchenette window several inches, took the four strings, fastened them to the handles, careful not to touch the handles with his fingers. Myra was snoring throatily.

He poked the strings through the screen knowing that she had no more reason to use the stove, knowing that in the semi-darkened kitchenette the dark strings would be invisible. He took his keys out of his pocket and put them on the desk. He took the note from among his business papers, folded it once and placed it on the desk, an ashtray on top of it, in a conspicuous spot. It was important that he be without keys and that the note be out in the open for anyone to find. It would be best if someone else should find it. Then he could snatch it away and handle it.

Everything was ready. He spoke to her sharply, went over and shook her.

“Myra!”

She smiled blearily up at him. “Gee, I’m so tired I could die!”

That startled him for a moment, and then he felt a deep ironic amusement at her choice of words.

“Honey, I feel guilty not working today. I’m going down to Benninger’s drugstore. They’re a client, and I can do a little checking. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

“Maybe I’ll go to bed.”

“No. Don’t do that. It’s only a little after seven. You go to bed now and you’ll wake up before dawn.”

“Okay,” she said dreamily. “I’ll wait until you come back.”

He opened the door, looked back at her, and said, “Goodbye, honey.”

She yawned. “ ’Bye, Peter.”

He shut the door, heard the latch click. Now came the period of most danger. The night was very dark. The apartment house was on a quiet street. When he was certain that he was unobserved, he went quickly along the dark line of cedars. He looked cautiously through the windows of the living room. He could see the back of the wing chair in which she sat, her hand slack on the arm of the chair, the edge of one shoe. She did not move. Every object in the room stood out with a strange clarity, as though he were seeing the room for the first time, and had been asked to memorize the contents and the position of each item.

Cedar brushed his cheek as he moved back to the kitchenette window. He found the four strands, conquering panic as, for a moment, it appeared that one had slipped back through the screen. He pulled slowly and steadily. The four strings pulled free and he yanked them through the screen, balled them in his hand. Then he pressed the window shut, walked out to the edge of the building, looked up and down the deserted sidewalk, then hurried across to the walk and went south with long strides to the Benninger drugstore.

The younger brother was behind the counter. Peter’s lips felt stiff as he smiled. It seemed to him that in some secret place in his mind he could hear the whisper of escaping gas. A good thing the stove was a cheap one without a pilot light.

“Thought I’d stop by and see how the new register tape is working.”

“It seems to be going okay, Mr. Kallon. It slowed us up the first week getting used to it, but now it’s second nature. I like the way it keeps all the sales separated by department.”

“Sure,” Peter said. “It gives you a check on how you’re doing.”

“There’s a couple of new books of crosswords in since you were here a couple days ago.”

“Are there? Good.” He went casually over to the rack, picked out the new ones, put them on the counter, and slid up onto a stool. “I’d like a root beer, please.”

“Sure thing,” Benninger said. Charged water hissed into the glass. It also sounded like gas escaping. “How’s the missus?”

“What? Oh, she’s fine. Say, you don’t mind if I sit here and work one of these puzzles, do you?”

“Goodness, no! You go right ahead, Mr. Kallon.”

The puzzle he picked was based on names of cities and states. He glanced at the clock as he took his pencil out of his pocket. Ten of eight. He started the puzzle, lettering neatly and quickly. The Christmas city. Ah, that would be Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. Number ten down bothered him. Six letters. The only all-rock town in the U.S. He worked on the surrounding words and finally the stubborn one turned out to be Ingram. He felt a glow of satisfaction as he filled it in.

But he couldn’t quite forget the hollow feeling in his middle, the flutter that was partly excitement, partly worry. What was going on at the apartment? Had she been awakened by the smell?

He finished the puzzle and looked at the clock. Nine fifteen. Later than he had dared believe.

“Finished it off?” Benninger asked.

“I got it.”

Benninger laughed. “You sure are one for the puzzles and contests. Remember that contest blank I give you and you won a fifty-dollar government bond with it?”

“Of course I remember it. Well, time to get home. I’ve been a little worried about Mrs. Kallon lately. She acts depressed.”

“It’s this changeable weather. Gets all of us down.”

“Well, be sure you get those tapes and your check stubs down to the office on Friday, Harry. ’Night.”

“Good night, Mr. Kallon. We’ll have ’em there on time.”

Peter let the door swing shut behind him. He felt that he had handled it exactly as planned. Nothing crude like calling attention to the time. His hand hadn’t shaken as he’d picked up the change from his dollar. No, it had gone quite well. That’s what came of understanding details and knowing how to handle them from a purely objective viewpoint.

He found himself walking too fast and forced himself to slow down. The night air was cool on his face. Breathable air. Fresh, life-giving air. His heels struck firmly and crisply and tidily against the sidewalk. He passed a neighborhood couple by a streetlight. He knew them by sight. That was lucky.

“Good evening,” he said cheerfully.

“Hello, Kallon,” the man said. Better and better. He hadn’t realized that the neighbor knew his name.

He pushed the front door open and walked down the long corridor, past the elevators, down to the corner and then turned left and went to his own door. He took a deep breath, knocked, and called gaily, “Myra! Myra! Open up. I forgot to take my keys with me.”

He could smell it then, the faint odor of gas. He waited to make certain that he actually smelled it before simulating panic. “Myra!” he yelled, hammering on the door. In a few moments now, other doors would open. “Myra!”

He was rattling the doorknob helplessly, kicking at the bottom of the door, calling to his dead wife when it happened. In the last fractional second of life that was left to him it was as though the door had curiously pulled loose in his hand. It smashed against him with a white-hot blasting flare, the heavy panel smashing him against the opposite wall of the corridor...

Because the girl was very upset and because she looked a little like his daughter, the police lieutenant was very gentle.

“You had no way of knowing,” he said.

“I still don’t understand how it happened.”

He shrugged his heavy shoulders. “There was a heavy concentration of gas in the apartment. When a phone rings it makes a little spark inside it between the magnet and the arm on the clapper. So of course, after you dialed and got the connection, the line went dead at the first ring. You had no way of knowing.”